Dig for Fire
by BellaMed
Summary: Bella is a former US Olympic gymnast volunteering at the London 2012 Games. When she is thrown into the unfamiliar world of men's volleyball, working with hot Polish player Edward reawakens the passion inside her. AH, B x E. Started off as a one-shot for the anon contest Going for the Gold - now I'm continuing it.
1. Dig for Fire

**A/N: This fic began as a one-shot entry in the "Going for the Gold" Olympics themed contest (thank you to those who ran it). I've now decided to continue the story, though subsequent chapters will be much shorter than the first one.**

**A huge thank you to my lovely betas TDS88 and NinaQ for their work on Chapter 1! Your help and encouragement was vital. Muchas gracias to my volleyball-playing friend too. :)**

**Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and its characters, though the plot and original details are my own. Language and lemons ahead.**

* * *

(BPOV)

I was mesmerised as I watched the tiny Russian gymnast finish her floor routine, the sparkles on her red leotard glinting in the bright lights of the stadium. She took a run up and cartwheeled once, twice, before finally launching into the air in a high flip, then landing perfectly with her feet neatly together, in a double piked Arabian. My mind couldn't help supplying all the names for moves that had once been so familiar to me. She held a pose with her arms out, signifying the end of her almost flawless routine, and smiled as the admiring crowd erupted with wild cheers and applause.

The US team was up next, and I braced myself, knowing this would be the most difficult part of the day for me.

Angela Weber, their current medal hope and my old classmate, took the floor to dramatic music. I smiled from the sidelines, in case she looked over, but she didn't. She started out confidently, with a series of tumbles, then went tumbling across the floor in a fantastic triple twist.

That could have been me. Watching as the judges' marks were announced, waiting to see if it was enough to get me through the qualifying round. Accepting congratulations from my coach and my team, when it inevitably was. The rush of pride when my hard work had paid off. I knew I was dreaming of what could have been ... and it wasn't good for me. I reluctantly pulled myself back into the present.

The event had ended and the volunteer coordinator, Paul, was debriefing us.

"Good work today, everyone. Colin's team, Annette's team ... you're all on gymnastics again tomorrow, as planned. Jessica Stanley, Isabella Swan, I need you two on volleyball, please."

"What — beach volleyball?" Jessica said with a snort.

"No, the regular indoor kind," Paul clarified. "They're a couple of people short. Get yourself to Earls Court by 8:30 a.m. tomorrow morning, please ... here's the details." Paul handed us some information, turning away before I got a chance to argue.

I'd never watched volleyball and had only briefly played it at school back in the US. That was years ago, and I'd never got my head around all the rules, anyway. I'd specially requested to work in Gymnastics. It was my therapist's idea, and that was what I knew. It hadn't been easy to arrange the time off work to come here to London.

Why did they have to move me now? I'd been volunteering for two days and was just getting familiar with the venue and my duties. I glanced at the flyer. It had travel details of how to get to the venue by public transport and match schedules: the days alternated between the men's and women's matches, with men tomorrow, starting off with Poland v Italy. The six matches were scheduled to run from 9:30 a.m. until 11:30 p.m. There was a rotation though, so I'd only be working for the first half of the day.

I tried to put my irritation aside; I'd have to make the best of it. Besides, I wasn't sure could face watching anymore Gymnastics just yet. Maybe a few days of something different would be a welcome relief, despite what my shrink said.

~ DfF ~

I set my alarm early, though oversleeping wasn't much of a risk. Getting up was easier when I only had to say goodbye to my sleeping bag and camping mat instead of a cosy, warm bed. Some of the other volunteers, or 'Games Makers' as the organising committee called us, were staying in local bed and breakfasts or with friends, but I'd chosen to stay at a camp-site. This one was on the grass pitch of a local rugby club. It was cheap, and nice and central, so it cut out part of the hassle getting in every morning. Olympic season meant that London was teeming with people — even more so than usual — so a few less changes on the underground made all the difference. Though my journey was going to be longer now that they'd switched my allocated sport.

I always seemed to get friendly smiles from the other passengers, when I travelled on the Tube in my volunteer's uniform. I was getting to like the red and purple polo shirt with its Olympics 2012 branding ... even the matching baseball cap, though I was less taken with the beige trousers and standard-issue grey socks — not exactly stylish.

There were already lots of people on the Tube and on the streets, but I'd seen worse. I got to the venue without any problems. There was no mistaking that this was the right place – the name Earls Court was emblazoned on the imposing, white concrete building in red letters. This and the steps leading up to the entrances reminded me of an old-fashioned movie theatre, except it was much larger. There were 'Home to Olympic volleyball' posters on either side of the building and the same words were plastered across the curving façade that jutted out over the steps.

I checked my instructions and found the staff entrance, round the side of the building. I was ushered into a large room where twenty or so other volunteers were already gathered in a sea of purple and red uniforms. I recognised Jess in one group, gathered around a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties with a clipboard. He beckoned me over.

"Ah, you must be Isabella. I'm Paul." He shook my hand and smiled, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling up. "Isabella and Jessica, could you stay? Everyone else, thanks, that's all for now," he said, and they left. "I'm assuming you two are new to volleyball?" Paul asked.

Jess and I both nodded.

"Okay, I'll try to explain some of the basic rules," Paul said to us. "There are six players per team on court at a time. Points are won by landing the ball within the boundaries on the opposition's side of the net and the first team to reach 25 points wins the set … it's the best of five sets."

I did my best to listen, but a lot of the details went over my head; there must be so many rules if this was the short version.

"Players normally use their hands for control, but they can use any part of their body to hit the ball after the serve. A team can touch the ball a maximum of three times, plus a legal block before they have to return it over the net ..."

I hoped the game would make more sense when I was actually watching it.

"... but since we don't have time to go into more detail right now, please ask Mike Newton if you have any questions; he knows the game well," Paul said, indicating a blond volunteer standing nearby who gave us a smile and a wave. "Your main responsibilities today will be to provide general help and assistance to the athletes and officials during the match, though you will each be assigned to a particular player to take care of his needs when he isn't in play. So, I have two names left in the hat, then we can introduce you." He held up an Olympic branded baseball cap and picked out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Jess, then gave another one to me.

I unfolded it. I'd got the number 3 on the Polish team. He had a long surname beginning with a C.

After we'd been issued our kit — bottles of water, energy drinks, and towels — Paul showed our group out into an area holding the Polish volleyball team and their staff. He spoke a little to their short, grey-haired coach, who already seemed to know Paul, then started introducing players to their volunteers.

"Michał Jankowski, this is your helper for the day: Jessica. If you have any problems, find Jessica."

Jess shook hands with Jankowski.

"And finally, Edward Cullenski, meet Isabella," Paul said. I was still watching Jess and saw her double-take with a jealous stare in my direction. When I turned to face him, I could see why.

The sinfully attractive Edward took my hand and said, "Pleased to meet you, Isabella," in a strong Polish accent. He sounded friendly enough, though he wasn't smiling. Maybe he was nervous, thinking about the match.

"Please, call me Bella," I said, feeling a blush creeping across my cheeks. I recovered myself and added, "Pleased to meet you too, Edward."

He was so tall that I had to look up to talk to him. He had piercing, moss-green eyes framed by enviably long lashes. I didn't realise they'd all be basketball-player height. Edward must've been at least six foot five, towering about a foot over my tiny frame. My eyes lingered for a moment on his shock of dishevelled hair, its colour hard to put my finger on: dirty blonde perhaps, with hints of red when it caught the light. A zipped-up red polyester jacket with white trim covered his torso, and below that, he wore small red shorts that showed off his long, muscular legs. He was lean, and a little lanky looking because of the height, though clearly athletic.

"Can you take?" he asked in slightly faltering English, holding out the red jacket which he'd now taken off, meaning that my intentions to feign professionalism had waited while I admired the way the tight red jersey creased and stretched over the shape of his torso, hinting at the broad chest and defined upper arms that lay beneath. Part of a black tribal-style tattoo peeked out from his right sleeve. I wondered if he had tattoos anywhere else.

I thought I saw his mouth curl up marginally at the corners, and I whipped my eyes away, awkwardly looking down at my feet instead, hoping he hadn't noticed me blatantly trying to check out his body. I was probably drooling.

"Of course." I looked back to take the jacket from him, noticing the athletic tape wrapped around some of his long fingers like white bandages. "Let me know if there's anything else you need." _Anything at all._

"Thank you."

Paul led us out of the room, leaving the players to prepare. He took us through an archway, towards the arena. Inside, the venue staff were making final preparations for the match to start. The seats were filled to capacity and there was already an excited atmosphere building. The majority of the audience seemed to be Polish supporters, with red and white national flags and painted banners hung almost all the way around on the front rows of the arena, and more red and white in the crowd — with only the occasional Italian flag. Rock music was pumping out through the speakers around the arena; I recognised the unmistakeable guitar riff as The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army. On court, there were cheerleaders just completing their routine then left to stand behind the barriers to the side of the court.

The music was lowered, and the announcer called out over the sound system, "Please welcome the men's national volleyball teams of Italy and Poland!" A roar went up from the crowd, as both teams entered from one corner of the arena. Each team of ten or so men walked onto the court and lined up on either side of the net. They stood there, waving and turning to soak up the applause of the crowd from all directions.

I focussed in on the Polish team, and watched as they went briefly into a huddle, hugging each other. I couldn't help but appreciate Cullenski's toned ass in his little red shorts, as he bent slightly into the huddle. Maybe I could find a way to enjoy watching volleyball after all. They moved apart and began high-fiving each other, getting themselves pumped up to play. After this, they walked along the net to shake hands with each opposing player.

Once the greetings were done, I noticed Edward bend down and place his palm down on the floor for a few seconds. He paused there, crouching, gazing off thoughtfully into the distance. I wondered whether this was some sort of superstition. I'd seen the same sort of thing with other girls when I was a gymnast: certain things they'd always wear or do for luck before a competition.

Both teams started warming up, jumping up and down or doing stretches. Then several volleyballs were thrown out for them to begin some practice drills: digs, serves and passes.

Edward was in the starting six for the Polish team. All were around the same superhuman height as Edward, except one who was noticeably shorter (probably just under six foot), and wearing white kit with red writing on it, which was reversed colours from the rest. I asked Mike why, and he told me that he was the Libero, a specialist defensive position on the team.

"That's the team Captain, Emmett Nowak —" he said, indicating the hulking, dimpled guy to the right of Edward, "— and that one over there's Jasper Halek." The latter had golden, wavy hair, blue eyes and some serious cheekbones. The Polish team was pretty blessed in the looks department. Still, I felt a strange magnetism about Edward that drew me to him, above all the others.

The match began with the navy-blue clad Italian side serving, but after some play back and forth, Edward's teammate, Emmett, took his chance to smash the ball down over the net and win the point.

During play, the ball went so high in the air — as the tall players sprang up to hit it — and moved so fast, that it was hard to keep track of it. After a little while, I could follow the points some of the time, glancing at the electronic scoreboard to confirm who'd scored, and learning why the referee's whistle was blown, asking Mike when I was unsure. Despite finding the fast pace confusing, the game was invigorating and exciting to watch. In contrast to soccer, say, there were constantly points being won and players were kept on their toes, needing all six to work together as a unit all the time. I admired how each and every point seemed to count, like when Jasper ran to the edge of the court, knocking down a barrier in a desperate effort to keep the ball in the air, totally focussed on his task and oblivious to the nervous photographers ducking down out of his way, clutching their expensive long-lens cameras.

Now it was Edward's turn to serve. He held the yellow and blue volleyball in his left hand, with his arm stretched out in front of him. He quietly contemplated the ball for a few seconds as he spun it slightly in his fingers, before tossing it high into the air, stepping forward and leaping up to hit it at its peak with his right hand. It was an ace, hitting a space on the court in between several Italian players who were unable to return it. Team Poland did their customary celebration of a group hug with added high-fives and shoulder pats.

Winning the point meant that Edward served again. I hardly even knew the game, but his serve seemed like an art-form to me, so measured and controlled. This time, the ball continued play in a rally back and forth over the net, the majority of the crowd getting whipped up with excitement, clapping and calling something out in Polish each time their side passed the ball — counting, perhaps — in a common sequence of three moves (called 'dig, set, spike', Mike had explained) ending with Jankowski finally smashing it down over the net and winning the point for Poland.

Edward was a vital member of the team. His role seemed to be mostly defensive, often forming part of the wall of three Polish players with arms outstretched, blocking the ball at the net. But he could spike the ball aggressively to win a point when he got the chance.

The teams seemed closely matched in the first set, only separated by a few points, with Italy winning it in the end. But the loss seemed to spark Poland's determination, and they upped their game, taking the lead. Now they were two sets ahead, and just points away from winning the match. The whistle blew as their coach called a technical time-out. Edward and the rest of the towering Polish players were heading towards us on the sidelines. Until now, Edward had seemed entirely focussed on the match. I'd barely seen him smile, even when his team celebrated a point, not that he would have noticed me even then — so I was amazed to see him looking in my direction with a knowing smirk and a wink as he approached.

That got me all hot and bothered … and I wasn't sure if he was just teasing after seeing how I'd been objectifying his body earlier. Could he really blame me? If anything, he looked even sexier now than he had then, despite the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and making his jersey stick to his torso.

At least it didn't seem as if anyone else had noticed us. He took the towel I was holding out, wiped his face, then ran it over his head, which did nothing to help the chaotic state of his hair; though it looked strangely good on him. He took the water bottle I'd handed him, slung the towel over one shoulder without saying anything to me and joined his teammates. They were gathered round their grey-haired Coach, who was talking tactics animatedly in heavily accented English — he must not have been Polish. It only lasted a minute or two, then they reached into the centre to all touch hands in a gesture of unity. They shouted out something all together as they parted, testosterone raging, hyped up to finish the battle.

The crowd was chanting 'Polska' in between a pattern of handclaps, as the team came back on court. There was a faint sound of booing as the Italian team served, and silence when they won the point. Still, Poland only needed three more to win. The Italians were fighting back, and took another point, but Poland stood firm and went all out to secure the next two points. It was match point: Poland served. When the ball came back to them, Edward dug it from the back of the court, sending it up towards Jasper, who set it for Emmett with enough height for him to spike it down hard, winning the point — and the match, to a great roar from the crowd!

Instantly, Edward and the other Poles raised their arms in the air, whooping in jubilation at their win. They moved in to congratulate each other, and I was pleased to see Edward finally displaying his emotions. He was unable to contain his joy, grinning widely, jumping up and down, and backslapping his teammates. The rest of the Polish team and the coach ran onto the court to join in with the celebrations.

I wished I could go over to congratulate Edward, as both he and Team Poland had really impressed me, but I could see how stupid that would make me look — I was just a volunteer — so my feet stayed firmly rooted to the spot. However, moments later, Edward caught my eye, and started to walk in my direction, unnoticed by his distracted team.

I gave him a slightly shy smile and he grinned back down at me.

"So, what do you think of us now, eh? We played good?" he said, in his lilting accent. He gently touched my shoulder and a jolt of electricity passed through my body at his unexpected touch.

"Yes, you were great! Congratulations on the win!" I said.

"_Dziękuję_, Bella."

I gave him a quizzical look, not understanding the word … but liking how pretty it sounded, coming from his oh-so-kissable pink lips.

"Thank you, I mean. Sorry, my English is not good," he said.

"No, don't apologise, your English is fine. Anyway, my Polish is non-existent!"

We both laughed, but I wasn't sure what to say next. Edward gave me a polite nod, and left to rejoin the team. He walked with them round the edges of the arena to sign some autographs for the ecstatic Polish crowd. A couple of the women had a banner with 'Cullenski' painted on it. They had Polish flags painted on their cheeks, and their hair was in bunches. They screamed as he approached. A faint hint of jealousy bubbled in my chest, but I saw that his eyes were down, concentrating on the paper they held out for him to sign, only glancing at them quickly, and moving on to the next group straight away.

I wondered if the team would be having a big celebration tonight, or whether it was too early in the tournament for that. Perhaps they had to remain focussed and start preparing for the next match. I looked down at my schedule; I wouldn't get to see another Polish match for four days now. I couldn't wait.

~ DfF ~

One of the perks of being a volunteer was that I could use a local gym just outside the Olympic Village for free. Some of the athletes had access to it as well, but as a recreational facility rather than for their training. There were specialised, limited-access locations for that, of course. I'd never much liked working out (not since I'd left my sport anyway) but I still enjoyed swimming. Today I wasn't working until the afternoon, so I had planned a few lengths in the pool to wake myself up.

I got changed into my black bikini and stuffed my things into a locker. I could smell the chlorine as I slipped into the luke-warm water at the shallow end. It was early, so it was relatively quiet; only a few others were swimming. I swam a couple lengths in the pool. As I swam steadily back towards the shallow end, my eyes were drawn to a somehow familiar-looking figure standing poolside. It was a guy, chugging from his water bottle; needing a drink at the swimming pool had always seemed odd to me somehow. His longish hair was wet and slicked back on his head.

I made it back to the shallow end and crossed my arms in front of me to lean on the side. The guy turned slightly. Wait … that tattoo on his arm, the mile-long, toned legs … it was Edward. Only, I hadn't recognised him at first, now he was out of his red and white volleyball kit. He was barely wearing anything, in fact. Just small black swimming trunks. I was seeing more of his flesh than I'd ever imagined I'd get to see. And, damn, he was hot.

My eyes lingered hungrily on his glorious, lean physique, droplets of water glistening on his lightly tanned skin. I couldn't help but imagine what laid under his jersey as I'd watched him play yesterday, and the reality certainly didn't disappoint now: broad, masculine shoulders, defined pecs and a gently sculpted abdomen with just a sprinkling of hair below it, in a trail descending down beneath the waistband of his black swimming trunks. Those were wet, clinging teasingly to his shape.

I watched, still spellbound, as he brought the water to his mouth again, the muscles rippling in his thick arm. That intricate, spiky tribal tattoo hugged the curved planes of his right bicep and shoulder, and the veins were just visible under the skin of his arms.

I was still staring when I became aware of those sparkling green eyes meeting my gaze. Shit, I'm making quite a habit of this now. Does he realise what he's doing to me?

I looked away, embarrassed, but not before I'd noticed that he was beating me at my own game, looking me up and down in an appreciative leer. I felt suddenly indecent in the halter-neck black bikini, and wondered how much he could see from where he was standing.

He put his drink down and started walking towards me with another of those dirty smirks on his face; they ought to be illegal.

"Hi Bella," he said, slipping into the water beside me. "Hope you don't mind if I join you ... I didn't expect to see you here." He gave me a cheeky, crooked grin. "Nice bikini."

"Um, thanks," I managed, thinking, _nice body_.

I couldn't believe he was being so friendly and flirty. That he was interested in me.

We swam together for a bit, but didn't talk any more — that language barrier again. After a while, he playfully splashed me, eliciting a surprised shriek out from me, and then swam off. I tried to swim after him, but I couldn't keep up with his strong front crawl using my pitiful breast stroke, and he looked back over his shoulder, laughing at me. Maybe it was a little cruel of him, but it broke the ice without needing any words, and we were soon relaxing and enjoying each other's company.

~ DfF ~

After we'd got out of the pool and changed, we swapped numbers and tried to meet up every day or two. It was never for very long, since he was busy with training and matches, but we talked each time and were getting to know one another. He even invited me to tag along with some of the team on a London sightseeing trip. The players were dressed in their red and white Polish training gear; I suppose to make them feel united even when they were doing something other than practising.

One of the guys on the team took lots of photos as we wandered past the gates of Buckingham Palace to watch the Changing of the Guard: the ceremonial swapping over of shifts by soldiers at the sentry boxes. The new regiment slowly marched in, armed with symbolic rifles, wearing their traditional uniforms of scarlet jackets with silver buttons down them, black trousers and tall black bearskin hats. It was all very regimented and quaint.

After taking in a few other tourist attractions, we stopped for lunch. It was sunny, so we bought some burgers from a fast food chain and sat to eat them in front of a fountain in Trafalgar Square, surrounded by statues, including the tallest one, Nelson's Column. There was a big screen set up, showing some of the athletics, so we watched a bit as we ate.

All day, Emmett and Jasper had been constantly messing about and joking. Edward just rolled his eyes at me as he explained whatever the latest joke was and tried to translate their Polish. Sometimes the jokes didn't seem to translate all that well. It was good fun, though. I hadn't laughed this much in a long time. At one point, walking away from the Square, we came across three London policemen, in their uniforms of black trousers with luminous yellow flak jackets, with reflective strips on them and 'Police' markings. They were wearing those black, rounded helmets with the Metropolitan Police logo on them in silver. Of course, Emmett had the idea to ask them for a photo! The policemen were pretty good-natured, amused to see these Polish Olympic tourists enjoying visiting London, and agreed to loan Emmett, Jasper and a reluctant Edward their helmets so they could cosy up and pose for a photo, all six of them. I couldn't stop laughing, seeing how the volleyball players dwarfed the uniformed officers.

As we were parting ways after the day trip, Edward invited me out.

"Bella, I would like to see you tonight," he said. "Will you have dinner with me?"

"Yes, I'd really like that," I replied, without hesitation.

~ DfF ~

Edward booked us a table at an Italian restaurant for that evening. He arranged to meet me by text, coming to pick me up from the campsite so that we could get the Tube together into central London. I hoped it wasn't somewhere too expensive and crowded, but I trusted his judgement.

We got in line to get through the barriers at the station, swiping the free Oyster Card travel passes we'd been issued. I watched, amused, as Edward unfolded a Tube map from his pocket and traced a route with his fingers, then went up to the board listing the stations on our line to check which direction we needed. I'd already figured it out but didn't say anything — seeing him concentrating so hard was fun.

"Is it your first time on the Tube?" I asked.

"Yes, we have Metro in Warsaw, where I am from, but it only has one line. London has so many."

We got to the right platform through the tunnels, and after waiting for a few minutes, a breeze and a faint noise indicated the train was coming. We boarded one of the packed compartments just before the doors closed, Edward having to duck his head even after we'd squeezed in and found a spot to stand. After riding for a few stops, we changed onto another line to get to our destination, Waterloo.

It was pretty busy there, even now that it was dark. From where we stood, we could see the floodlit Houses of Parliament across the Thames, its spires and Big Ben clock tower looking majestic, glowing golden against the night sky, the mass of light reflected in the river. After pausing to take it all in, we moved on, and Edward led me down a backstreet to the restaurant. It looked unremarkable from the outside; I probably would've walked right by it if I'd been looking for a spot to eat. But once inside, it was charming and traditional — just simple, without any of that tacky fake Italian paraphernalia on the walls. It was surprisingly quiet inside, given the central London location. There weren't many other people there, so a waiter appeared to greet us straight away; he was obviously Italian and very welcoming. He seated us at a candle-lit table and took our drinks orders, leaving us to look over the menus.

He appeared with my glass of white wine and Edward's Coke. "Are you ready to order?"

"Yes, I think so," Edward answered and motioned for to me to go first.

"I'll have the seafood risotto, please," I said.

"And for me: spicy meatball calzone with a side salad and garlic bread. Thank you."

One of those calzones alone is normally too much for me, he must really be starving.

"What? I'm burning it all off in training every day!" Edward said, putting his hands up in mock defensiveness, as if he'd read my mind.

Once the food arrived, we ate in contented silence for several minutes.

"What's Polish food like, then?" I asked.

"Well, we have some tasty, warming dishes like … stews, with meat and vegetables. Though actually Italian food is pretty popular there … and we have Polish speciality, pierogi, that is a little like a filled pasta, or how you say ... dumplings."

"Sounds nice," I said, taking another bite of my food.

"How is your meal?"

"It's lovely, thanks. How's yours?"

"Totally delicious." His smile was infectious. "Want to taste some?" He cut a piece, then held out the fork.

"Yes, please," I said, welcoming the intimacy of the gesture.

He moved the fork up to my mouth, his green eyes fixated on my lips as I closed them around the offered food. I ate it slowly, savouring the flavours on my tongue, then swallowed.

"Good, right?" he enquired, still watching me.

"Mmm … very," I replied.

I fed him a mouthful of my risotto in return, watching his tongue dart out between his soft lips to chase a stray bit of rice.

The atmosphere between us remained charged for the rest of the meal, but the conversation was easy and relaxed. We discussed where we both came from and our backgrounds. I told him about my office job, not that there was much to tell. I learned that he was 27 — five years older than me. I told him I was from Washington State, and a bit about my hometown, Forks. He talked about Warsaw, also about his sport.

"Volleyball is very popular in Poland. It is second biggest sport after football. Especially now, with the Olympics … the media think that we will definitely win medals. I don't know though. We won the Gold in Volleyball World League, only last month, so they are sure we can do it again. It depends on other teams. It is not always this simple."

That must be hard, trying to live up to such high hopes.

"So are you all celebrities at home?" I said, thinking of the autograph-seeking girls with their 'Cullenski' banner.

"Yeah, I guess … we are well-known, we get recognised in the street … and they call us national heroes." He shuffled in his seat, not making eye contact. He was obviously reluctant to be labelled as a hero. Maybe he felt they didn't deserve it yet. He seemed surprisingly grounded, though. "But I just want to focus on every match as it comes. It's an honour to play for my country, of course, but first for me is love of the game."

"How did you first start playing?"

"My father played professional volleyball. I enjoyed sport at school, but I didn't want to be like him —" he looked up and gave a little smile "— so I tried a few other sports: football, basketball because I was high … no, tall, I mean. But I didn't enjoy these so much. When I tried volleyball, I fell in love with the sport … there's nothing else like it." He paused for a minute, trying to find the right words to express it, but his genuine excitement and enthusiasm for the subject was clear; his body language was less reserved than normal and a smile danced on his lips. "When I go onto the field … I feel that this is where I belong. I think it is team spirit that makes it such a great sport, and the power, the speed … volleyball is beautiful to watch and to play. It became my passion and my life, and now I am lucky enough that it is my job."

I admired his real passion for volleyball, and it made mine for him grow stronger. It was like he was showing me a part of myself that I'd lost. The ability I'd had to put all of myself into one thing, to battle hard for what I believed in and wanted so badly. That one thing had been gymnastics for me, but a hole had remained in my chest since that had been taken from me. It was a hole that I couldn't fill, or hadn't tried to. Now? Well, I was happy for it to be him, while I had him. Maybe after that I'd be strong enough to get back on my own two feet and discover some new passion, and find that there could be more to life than a mundane office job.

Our desserts of tiramisu and profiteroles came, and we talked some more.

"What did you move to UK for, Bella?"

"Well … I moved here a few years ago to study, and I live in Oxford now." True, studying was part of the reason I'd come here, though there was a bit more to it than just that. I didn't want to talk about it right now. More because telling him would bring the mood down than not feeling able to. I didn't know him that well yet, but I definitely felt that I could trust him. There was a bond developing between us, drawing us together. I suppose the limited time we had left — my heart ached remembering that it was barely more than a week now — meant that our time together was more precious and things were moving faster by necessity.

Edward insisted on paying the bill, then escorted me back to the campsite and wished me goodnight. He was about to leave then, but I grabbed his hand and did what I had been desperate to do all night: I kissed him. The first kiss was only an awkward peck on the lips, as I had to get onto my tiptoes and pretty much yank his head down to my level. I let him go and he straightened out again, giving me a surprised look that turned into a happy grin, then scooped me up easily into his strong arms. I could feel the heat radiating from his body and his breath on me as he brought his face closer, then pushed his lips onto mine. They were soft and inviting. We kissed again, this time slowly and tenderly, making me tingle all over.

I couldn't exactly ask him back to my tent, and Edward seemed too gentlemanly to suggest it, so once he'd put me down that was goodnight.

~ DfF ~

After another couple of days, I'd watched a number of volleyball matches, not always managing to see Poland play, depending on my day's rotation. I was fitting in well and starting to pick up the rules too. Paul organised, with my consent, for me to stay with volleyball instead of moving back to Gymnastics.

I didn't care anymore what my shrink had told me, I was moving on in my own way … through whatever this thing with Edward was and by getting caught up in a new sport, volleyball. My heart had been so delicate that I'd wrapped it up in bandages years ago and been scared to let anyone and anything penetrate it ever since. Opening myself up to new passions might mend my battered heart and heal me, even more effectively than facing up to painful memories was supposed to.

I tried not to think about how I'd feel once the inevitable came and the Olympics had ended. I was enjoying it while it lasted, living for the now. Just being able to do that, to let myself be moved by a sport again — and the man who played it — was progress for me.

Paul listened to my complaints that the campsite was inconvenient to travel from every morning and found me a space in a shared dormitory closer to Earls Court. It was normally a youth hostel, but for the moment, it had been taken over unofficially by Olympic volunteers. It was hardly luxurious, but a bunk bed was a step up from camping. I'd have access to indoor showers and toilets, and if the unpredictable British weather turned bad, I'd be warm and dry.

~ DfF ~

Edward had to get me a special pass to get into the Olympic Village, where he was staying, as most of the athletes did. Even then, there was airport-style security to get through; they checked our ID and searched my bag, then we both had to walk through a metal detector. I was excited that I was getting the chance to see inside of the Village for myself.

Once we'd got in, Edward led the way, talking as we walked. He was telling me how great the 24-hour food court was, but it was difficult for me to focus fully on what he was saying, distracted by the closeness of his body to mine, and how good he looked in his casual clothes: dark-wash jeans and a black, V-necked T shirt that emphasised the contours of his defined chest.

We walked past some of the purpose-built apartment blocks. The buildings themselves were all very grey, but there were splashes of colour and individuality from the various international flags that the occupants had draped from the windows and balconies; there were larger-than-life mascots too — like the red model moose in front of the Canadian block. There were grassy spaces between the buildings, dotted with trees and sports related sculptures. The newly built streets had cheesy names thought up by the organising committee, like 'Victory Way' and 'Celebration Alley'.

The Village was buzzing with hundreds of athletes, mostly dressed in their kit or training gear. Some were purposefully walking from one place to the next, but others were more relaxed, sitting on the grass, enjoying the afternoon sun in small groups. As we passed them, I heard multiple different languages spoken. There was almost a party atmosphere, so much youth, energy and positivity, as if we were at a holiday resort where the average age was twenty-something. I guessed everyone felt privileged to be here, and knew that this extraordinary combination of nationalities and talents wouldn't be gathered in a single place again for another four years, if ever.

Just like in a real village, there was a bank, shops and post office — even a hairdressers and a pub. Though on our route through, we also passed a fake 'beach': a square patch of sand with deckchairs and parasols. Overall, the place had a surreal atmosphere, from the knowledge that the place would stay in its current state for a few weeks only. The time spent planning and building dwarfed its intended lifetime. Some of the buildings would be re-purposed, of course, into affordable housing or office blocks, but the fleeting Olympic Village would soon be unrecognisable.

Edward and I were meeting up with some of his teammates at the pub, if you could call it that — all they served were free soft drinks. Bizarrely, the fridges behind the bar only seemed to contain Coke cans and Powerade bottles, it must have been a sponsorship thing. But there was a good atmosphere despite the alcohol ban. The bar was packed full of athletes relaxing and talking in so many different languages. Over on the other side from the bar was a games room containing pool and foosball tables. Most of these were occupied; I recognised one or two of the faces as well-known members of the Jamaican track team.

We spotted three of Edward's teammates, plus one blonde girl, standing in the lounge area and made our way over to them. I felt ridiculously tiny standing beside the four gigantic men and the rather tall blonde. Edward put his arm around my shoulders protectively, and started introducing me to them. There was Jasper Halek, who I remembered but hadn't spoken to yet, and Michał Jankowski, the guy Jess had been assigned to look after. Michał seemed sweet, but even quieter than Edward.

"This is Emmett Nowak," Edward said, gesturing towards the tall team Captain, who was dressed down in jeans and a grey short-sleeved shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and thick biceps.

Emmett shook my hand enthusiastically.

"Good to meet you, Bella." His accent was a weird mixture: Polish like Edward's but with a hint of American. Maybe he'd learned English in the USA.

"And finally, Emmett's girlfriend, Rosalie." This was the pretty blonde standing next to Emmett. "She is on Polish women's volleyball team." How cute, a volleyball couple! That would explain her height, then. She had a short skirt on, showing off her enviable long legs, and was almost Emmett's height in her flat shoes. Rosalie also shook my hand, smiling.

"Edward has been telling us so much about you," she said.

"All good things, I hope," I said, a little embarrassed to hear it.

"Of course!" she replied.

But Emmett turned and said something in Polish to Edward, and I looked up to Edward, questioningly.

He smiled. "Emmett says I have done well to find nice American girl."

I laughed, looking from him to Emmett, not knowing what to say.

We sat on three of the brown leather sofas, which were arranged around a Persian rug, with some wooden bookshelves completing the square.

The others mostly tried to speak English for my benefit, except when they couldn't think of the right words. I appreciated that they were trying to make me feel welcome, and was glad that it seemed that they'd given me their seal of approval.

Emmett and Jasper in particular seemed like really good guys — always joking around and making Edward laugh. They might be good for him; he had a tendency towards over-seriousness when he was on his own. It was nice seeing him letting his hair down and having a good laugh in their company. I noticed they called him Edek sometimes, and when I asked, Jasper explained that this was the diminutive form of Edward's name. It was cute that they were all close enough to have this nickname for him.

After a little while we got tired of the lack of alcohol and decided to decamp to the team's apartment, where they had their own copious supply of Tyskie beer. All of his team were staying in the same block. There was a small, shared lounge: mostly empty, apart from a large TV, lime green sofa and matching chairs.

Edward insisted he wasn't drinking at all at first, but the others talked him into a few beers, since they weren't playing again until the day after tomorrow. I knew I was only working the afternoon session tomorrow, however, so I wasn't too worried.

I was soon floaty-happy, still aware of everything going on, but less self-conscious. This meant I could get more hands on with Edward even with the others around, running my hands through his hair as I sat in his lap on the lounge chair. Rosalie was similarly wrapped around Emmett on the sofa. The others lapsed more back into Polish the more they drank, and I listened to the sounds of their words. It was definitely prettiest in Edward's musical, soft tones, I decided.

Edward wasn't drinking as much as me, but his happiness from their win today seemed to make the alcohol go further. He was relaxed and cheerful, smiling and laughing more than I'd seen him do before. He was also slightly more talkative — maybe he'd stopped worrying so much about his poor English, or perhaps he just felt more at ease in my presence than he had before.

Eventually, the others excused themselves to go to bed, leaving us alone. Earlier on, Edward had asked about my living arrangements, and I'd told him it was a shared dorm with bunk-beds. Edward got it into his head that we should go back to mine, and the idea had sounded strangely good to me, so I agreed.

We were both giggling loudly as we entered the dorm building, but I raised my finger to my lips to shush him before we got to the corridor with my bedroom, my last remaining logic telling me that we didn't want to be discovered ... as that would ruin our fun.

We crept in, using over-exaggerated tiptoe movements like cartoon burglars. He stayed behind me, his right hand over my mouth, ready to muffle my giggles — which threatened to return at any moment — and his left hand on my shoulder to steady me, as I was a little wobbly on my feet. Luckily, I was wearing flats.

We somehow made it safely to the dorm room. The lights were already off — thankfully, my three female roommates were clearly more sensible than me and were trying to get an early night. We slipped off our shoes, then Edward unlocked his cell phone screen to give us a faint light so that we could see to get up the bunk bed ladder. My bunk was the top one of the bed nearest the door; there was a second bunk bed at the back of the room. I climbed up the ladder first and he followed. It was a single bed, so it would be a little squashed with both of us in it, but I'd shared one before on many occasions with my boyfriend back when I was at college. Just with a few minor differences, of course: the boy had not been as ridiculously tall as Edward (not to mention an Olympic athlete), it hadn't been a top bunk, and there hadn't been anyone else in the room at the same time …

I felt as if I was sobering up slightly, since I was beginning to fear the consequences. But my lust for Edward still outweighed the risk-factor. I couldn't even see him right now — it was enough that I could feel his body heat, and smell his musky, masculine scent.

I reached for his T-shirt and pulled it off, wanting to acquaint myself with his body. I placed my hands on his body, feeling his taut pecs and abs and trying to picture them.

Edward undid his belt and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans, then pulled my top off. He bent down and kissed my neck, saying, "This is so hot!" He undid the clasp of my bra and removed it as he spoke. Then his warm breath was in my ear as he whispered in warning. "Three other girls are in the room with us. You'd better be quiet ... so they don't hear."

I was all too aware of this, but for some reason hearing him say it turned me on like crazy.

His hands went to my breasts, exploring them with a firm touch. He whispered, "My God, your tits are perfect … lovely. Just the right size. So sexy." It occurred to me that the language barrier seemed less noticeable right now; he was clearly fluent in dirty talk.

I let out a whimper of need as he played with my erect, sensitive nipples, so he put a hand over my mouth, saying, "Keep quiet. I was torn between feeling the ache caused by the removal of that hand from my breast, and the thrill of him silencing me this way.

Edward was having to hunch down awkwardly so his head didn't hit the ceiling. There wasn't space to undress much further, but as wild with lust as we were, this was a minor inconvenience … I just pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down a bit to allow me the access I craved, and he slipped a hand under my skirt. His long fingers pushed my panties to one side and dipped tentatively in my entrance.

"Wow, Bella, your pussy is so wet for me," he said. "You want me, don't you? I can't wait to fuck you."

My brain and my ovaries were going berserk, hearing the wicked things coming out of his mouth. He was right about me wanting him. I would have done anything he wanted right now; I didn't even care if anyone heard it. All that mattered was him and me. I used my hand between his thighs to show him everything I couldn't say. I curled my fingers around his thick cock and ran them up and down along its length.

He gave a quiet groan and breathed, "Fuck, baby, that feels so good. I'm so hard for you."

His fingers moved more decisively on me now ... teasing and stroking, sending delicious waves of pleasure through my body, but I was greedy for more. I instinctively started to buck against his hand, urgently trying to seek more friction.

Fuck ... his fingers felt amazing. My loud moan was only slightly dampened by his other hand, still over my mouth.

One of the other girls made a noise and turned over. I froze, scared. Edward calmly carried on gently touching me for several minutes — I couldn't find the will to stop him, despite the possibility that she'd heard us — and we didn't hear anything more after that. She couldn't have woken up.

"You must promise to stay silent," Edward said softly.

I nodded and murmured quietly against his hand in assent. He removed it from my mouth, pausing to offer the forefinger of his hand for me to suck. I complied, suggestively taking it in my mouth and grazing it with my teeth as he moved it in and out. Then he lowered the wet finger to swirl it around my swollen clit, whilst pushing another one inside of me. He added a second and began gliding them in and out. My body submitted totally to his control. I bit my bottom lip in an effort to keep quiet.

"Next time, it will be my cock," he whispered.

A thrill ran through me at this, and I was reminded that I was still holding it, so I began to move my hand up and down again, enjoying the proof of his own arousal as he touched me. I was rewarded by a gasp of breath from Edward and the rhythm of his fingers inside me building. I felt myself getting close, and tried to hold back from making a noise.

One more whisper in my ear from him was all it took to push me right over the edge.

"I want to make you come, Bella, right here in this room for everyone to hear."

I gasped and felt myself quivering and tightening around his fingers as the sparks of heat that had collected in my belly ignited in an intense climax.

"Fuck … so hot," he rasped out.

My hand had stilled again on his cock, fingers still curled around it, all of the energy knocked out of me. Edward stroked his hand over my breasts and down to my hip, then gently replaced my hand with his own to begin expertly stroking himself.

"I can —" I began, feeling guilty, but unsure I could rouse myself from my daze quite yet.

"Shh … do not worry. If you are okay with it?"

"Please … yes, I want you to," I murmured, wanting his climax almost as badly as I'd wanted my own. His fingers moved at a faster pace and he started breathing more heavily.

After a few minutes more he uttered, "Gonna come".

And then he did, in a warm spurt over my belly.

~ DfF ~

I awoke early, uncomfortable from having slept wrapped around Edward in the single bed, in a tangle of his long limbs with my short ones. I sat up to look around in the gentle daylight coming in through the thin curtains. Edward was still asleep, as was one of the other girls. The other two beds were empty now. Well, as long as the others hadn't woken and heard us last night, I could get over the embarrassment of them seeing Edward in my bed this morning. At least he'd pulled the duvet over us to cover up our semi-dressed state.

Perhaps we could still creep out without the final girl seeing. But more importantly, I wanted to see up-close what I could only feel last night. I lifted the cover a little, and ran my hand over the contours of his sculpted pecs, and down to his taut abdomen and the trail of hair disappearing into his boxer briefs. I reluctantly pulled my eyes away from that danger zone, and back up to his broad shoulders, to see the rest of that tattoo on his muscular upper arm. It was an intricate, black tribal design — I realised that the small circular symbol at the centre of the spiky pattern was a simple representation of a volleyball.

~ DfF ~

For the past few days, my schedule hadn't coincided with Edward's matches, so I'd watched lots of volleyball but didn't see him play. The men's matches were only on alternate days, the days in between being women's matches. I was lucky enough to watch South Korea play Brazil —according to Mike and Paul, Brazil was one of the top women's teams.

South Korea looked cool, in their hot-pant style tiny shorts and knee-high socks. The women were tall, too. Mike pointed out one particularly kick-ass Korean player, Kim Jiu, who apparently held records in the number of points won by any one player in the season, including the men. She held her otherwise unremarkable team together, managing to motivate them, as well as carrying the play almost single-handedly. In fact, we saw South Korea beat the supposedly superior Brazil 3–1.

I met up with Edward when I could. After a week into the Olympics, Poland had played three more matches, losing only once. They were notching up the points and, so far, keeping their loyal army of fans happy, even thrashing the Great British, host-nation team, in straight sets.

Today the final matches of the men's preliminary round were taking place. Poland was near the top of their table, so they were almost certain to go through to the quarter-finals regardless of the result today, but, of course, they still wanted to win. I was working the evening shift, and Poland's was the last match of the day. The previous one seemed to drag on forever … I was anxious to see him in action again. It was 10:30 p.m. by the time they took to the court. The Poles were dressed in bright blue today. I guessed their kit choice must depend on the other team's colours. It looked stunning on Edward.

He did his pre-game ritual again, putting his hand on the floor, and I resolved to ask him about it when I could.

Australia won the first set.

Edward was on the bench until he was called on during the second. The towering, sun-kissed Australian started play with a powerful serve, but Poland held their nerve, returning it with a dig, set and spike combination. Australia kept it in play and spiked it over the net. Edward was defending at the net with Jasper and Emmett and made the block, jumping up to pat the ball down over the net, winning the point. But he landed awkwardly, one foot twisting beneath him, and then crumpled to the floor. Players seemed to fall quite a lot in volleyball — sometimes diving to ensure they could get to the ball, even appearing to get knocked down by the ball sometimes — so the rest of the team disregarded him and congratulated each other as normal, though my eyes stayed on him. But when it became clear Edward wasn't getting up, some of his teammates ran over to him, concerned, and the referee blew his whistle to suspend play.

Several Polish team staff and a doctor rushed onto the court, surrounding him, so I couldn't see him anymore. They spoke to him for a minute and examined his leg and foot. The assessment seemed positive, as he was offered an arm on each side by Emmett and Jasper, to help him up onto his feet. He was standing fine, so they let go but stayed close. But then suddenly his face contorted in pain, his legs giving way under him, so he had to grab onto the nearest people around him to keep his balance. His hand was on one of the coaching staff, and Emmett bent down so Edward could put his other arm around his shoulder. Together they lifted Edward up, supporting his bent legs, to carry him off the court to one of the chairs on the sideline, the audience applauding to show him their support. I could practically feel his agony; it was written all over his face. The doctor got him to stretch out and raise his injured leg, and took off his shoe and sock to assess the damage. It seemed to be his ankle that was the problem.

Back on court, Edward had been substituted by another player, and the match had restarted. The attention of the crowd was off him now, but he still had several people around him, treating his ankle. It looked like they were applying ice packs, then they put a bandage on. He had his head in his hands; I wasn't sure if it was solely from the pain — he must have been frustrated at being pulled out of the game too, and maybe worried about how long it would take to heal.

I didn't want to get in the way of all the team staff looking after Edward, so I didn't manage to speak to him for the remaining half-hour of the match — which Poland was losing. I kept glancing over at him, sitting in his chair with his bound foot elevated … his face was ashen, knowing he was powerless to help his floundering team. I longed to go over and comfort him.

Poland did their best to claw back some of the points and stay in the match, claiming the third set, but their opponents proved too strong at the crucial moments. Finally Australia sealed the deal with a match point, making it 3–1, and it was all over. At least a loss didn't mean Edward's team was out of the tournament, I reminded myself … but would he be able to play again?

Emmett, Jasper and the rest walked slowly back from the court with looks of disbelief and numbness on their faces. Emmett stood silently with his teammates, while Jasper sat on the floor, legs stretched out, looking dejected. I saw an opportunity to go over to Edward; he was pretty much alone now, as the people around him had moved off to commiserate with the rest of the team over their loss.

"I'm sorry you lost ..." I said, awkwardly. "How badly are you injured?"

"My ankle is sprained … the doctor says that I must rest." He was fisting his hair in frustration. "I can't play next match, maybe even not after that, they are not sure yet how bad it is," Edward explained, with such a mournful look on his face.

I battled to inject some optimism into my voice. "You have to be positive. I'm sure if you rest it now, like the doctor says, you'll be back playing again really soon."

"I don't want to miss the quarter-finals. It could be my last chance to play at Olympics."

I remembered that the next match was the first of the knockout rounds. If Poland lost now, they'd be out of the tournament.

I wanted to be as supportive as I could, but I knew only too well how scary this felt … doing your very best, only for fate to intervene in the form of an injury. I realised that I finally wanted to unburden myself with Edward … to be open about my own Olympic past; maybe it could even help him get some perspective on his situation.

I hadn't talked to that many people about it in several years, except for my shrink and my family. Back in the US, I'd been pretty well-known, so of course the subject had come up with people. I'd moved to the UK in 2009 in part so that I could escape what had happened and make a new start for myself.

I put my hand on his shoulder, aiming at comforting him discreetly. Most of the audience was slowly dispersing from the arena, but all the team and staff were still around us. But when I felt him shiver at my touch, it made me ache. _Fuck what everyone else thinks_, I thought, _Edward needs me_. I sat on the chair next to him and put my arm around him.

"I haven't told you this before, but I was at the 2008 Olympics," I said.

"Really? You were volunteer at Beijing?" He perked up a little; maybe a distraction was what he needed. I hoped telling him the rest wasn't a bad idea. "I was there too, with the team. No medals for us that year though."

"No, not a volunteer. I was a competitor too … a gymnast, in fact."

He raised an eyebrow, maybe at the mental image of me in a leotard, but stayed quiet as I continued.

"I was on the US team until I injured my knee in the qualifying round at Beijing. I had to pull out of the Olympics, and it was so bad that it ended my career. Well, pretty much …. I carried on training for a year once I recovered, but with all the operations and the pain I kept having, I got pretty behind in my training and my knee was never quite the same. I lost all my confidence and my heart just wasn't in it anymore, so I quit completely."

"I'm so sorry for it, Bella. How did you hurt yourself?" He looked genuinely concerned for me, even though it was years ago now and might not have seemed important with his own injury to worry about.

"I tore some of the ligaments in my knee in a bad dismount from the vault." I closed my eyes.

I'd replayed the event so many times in my head after it first happened, but more recently I'd started to block it out and manage not to think of it. Now memories of the failed vault assaulted my mind … first as frozen snapshots: the fateful landing, horrified looks on the faces of people in the front row as I clutched my knee in pain. Gradually the snapshots pieced together into a home video of the whole thing in my head. It was a high-difficulty move, with two and a half twists. I'd managed it many times in training without any problems — I'm not sure what went wrong. Maybe the pressure got to me. I think my vault itself was fine, but as I landed, my leg felt odd, and I heard a loud pop. A searing pain radiating up from my knee made me lose balance, wobble and then fall to the ground. I remember my Coach rushing over, and then little else. My next memory was of being pushed out of the arena in a wheelchair.

"Bella? Are you okay?"

I pulled myself out of my thoughts and opened my eyes to meet his anxious gaze, as I felt him placing his hand on mine.

"That's actually why I'm here volunteering," I started to explain, sighing. "I was put on Gymnastics originally before they switched me to volleyball. My therapist suggested it, because I was having trouble —" I made air-quotes with my fingers "— 'moving on' and 're-establishing my identity' so he thought it would do me good to face up to things by being here and watching the Olympic Gymnastics. I'm not so sure I agree, though … I'm glad I got moved to volleyball. I think distraction is doing more for me than having to watch my old teammates competing."

"I can see that would be very hard," Edward said, pensively. "I'm glad you have told me … I'm worried how soon I can play again with this ankle, but I know it's not serious long-term."

I was glad if what I'd said could make him put today into perspective. Also that he'd know I knew a little of what he was feeling from my own experience, so hopefully, he'd let me be there for him if he needed it.

I think I'd done the right thing bringing it up. It felt good to get it off my chest. But then I remembered something to lighten the mood a little. "I was meaning to ask you, when you touch the floor at the start of the match, are you doing it for luck?"

He smiled a little sadly. "Yes, not that it did much good for me today. I have a few superstitions like that one — every player has his own. Though, most of us like to wear in our new jerseys before wearing them for a match. We say to 'sweat' them, like to wear for training first or something. A brand new, unworn one would be very bad luck." He smiled again at the thought, looking a little happier.

~ DfF ~

For now, Edward was under doctor's orders to rest the ankle as much as possible, so I met him at the door to his apartment block in the Olympic Village. He looked a sorry sight, on crutches, lifting his taped up ankle, so as not to put weight on it for long. His usually clean-shaven face had a dusting of scruffy stubble over it, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"They gave you crutches? Is it painful?" I asked.

"Not very bad. I can stand on it but I'm supposed to use them for walking, to rest it."

We took the elevator up, then sat on the lime green sofa in the empty lounge, staring at the blank TV. The others were all out training. I was happy that we'd get to spend a little more time together, though of course I wished it could be under different circumstances. While the injury wasn't serious in the long-term, and the pain didn't seem too bad, it didn't stop Edward from brooding over the very real possibility that his part in the Olympics was about to come to a sudden end.

I didn't know what to do … remembering how helpless he'd looked sitting on the sidelines after falling. Maybe it would be too frustrating and difficult for him to watch Poland play tomorrow — so I broke the silence to suggest him missing it and doing something with me instead, to distract him, going out in London perhaps.

He sighed heavily but insisted, "No … I have to be there to support the rest of the team. It will be hard for me, but that is what this is all about … we are a team."

"Okay, of course … I get that. I'll be there to watch it with you," I said, giving him a kiss, wishing I could soothe away his worries and make it all better. I touched his cheek, running my fingers down from the softer skin above to the rough, dark-blond stubble covering his chiselled jaw. Then I couldn't help myself from touching his dark pink lips. That seemed to awake something in him — a hint of the passion I'd seen in him previously. He groaned softly and closed his eyes. Some of the tension was gradually melting away, leaving his face softer.

His eyes fluttered open again, and he reached out to run his fingers through my hair, then leaned in and put his lips on mine, tasting me gently, exploring my mouth with his tongue.

We kissed and embraced on the small sofa, but soon needed more space.

"Come, let's go to my room," he said, grabbing his crutches. I followed down the corridor. Once inside the small, basic bedroom, he put the crutches down against the wall.

The stand-out feature amongst the plain pine furniture was the garish orange, blue and pink duvet covering the single bed. Each coloured square contained a picture of a different Olympic sport, and there was an 'inspirational' slogan printed in white lettering along one side.

"It looks like a kid's duvet!" I said, turning to Edward and giggling.

"I know, right? Not exactly stylish," Edward said. "The bed's comfortable though, and look..." he flipped the bottom section down, extending the bed, making it plenty long enough to accommodate his tall frame.

"Wow, that's a cool idea," I said, not having seen a bed like it before.

"Yeah, it's something they don't have in a hotel. It's good," he said.

He hadn't made the room feel much more like home than a hotel room, though. His large grey suitcase was tucked in a space designed for it under the bed, and there weren't many of his belongings around. Just one of his bright-red team jerseys hanging up over the wardrobe door. I walked over to it and picked it up, wanting to look at it properly. It had a large white number 3 on the front, with a little Polish flag to the right of that. Then his name "Cullenski" was printed in capitals across the back in white again, above another number 3.

I jumped as I felt the heat from Edward's body as he suddenly came up right behind me, putting one hand on each side of my waist. His smooth voice was insistent. "You should try it on. I want to see my number on you."

A thrill of anticipation ran through me, and I felt heat gathering between my legs.

He let his hands drop to his sides, and I turned to face him, recognising the urgent need in his expression, because I knew it must mirror my own desire. He took the jersey from me and watched as I took off the black top I was wearing. I felt his eyes appraising my chest in the dark blue bra I had on.

He bent down to plant a trail of kisses over my left shoulder and began edging one bra strap down over the other with his fingers.

"_Just_ the jersey," he said, undoing the clasp on my bra and taking it off. I felt exposed, but so incredibly turned on that I was almost unable to move. I was aching for him to touch me.

But he didn't. He just looked at me, taking in the pale curves of my breasts. I think I moaned in desperation, then I felt electricity from the slightest brush of his fingers near my belly, first undoing the button on my jeans, then unzipping the fly.

I regained some power in my limbs and moved to pull the damned jeans down my legs. I needed to be out of them and to feel his hands on my flesh … I couldn't take his tortuously slow pace any longer. I forgot any sense of modesty, totally caught up in my need, and stepped out of my panties too. He must be able to smell my obvious arousal now. I was entirely naked before him for the first time; meanwhile, he was still fully clothed.

He murmured something in Polish, "_najpiękniejsza_", then handed me the red number 3 jersey, which I put on. It was long on me, and loose, except over my boobs. I liked the feeling that came with wearing something of his, especially an item that meant so much, though my bare flesh underneath was still crying out to be touched. My nipples were painfully hard against the fabric. I looked up at him and noticed his pupils were dilated, making his eyes even more hypnotic than usual.

He motioned circles with his hand and said, "Show me, turn around."

I spun around slowly, so that my back was to him, excited by this possessive side to him.

He gave a raw, urgent groan. "Fuck, Bella … it's so sexy, seeing my name on you." At last, he grabbed my breasts from behind, then slowly ran his hands downward over my waist and hips; the contact felt delicious through the thin red material. He manoeuvred me forward a little, towards the pine chest of drawers, and with nowhere else to go, I bent forward to lean over it, putting my hands out in front of me for support. There was a mirror above the drawers, and my eyes fixed on the reflection of his tall body pressed up against mine. I could feel his hardness pressed against my back through our clothes.

I gasped as he slipped his hand under the jersey and roughly fingered my slick, exposed pussy. His fingers were a little cold, but the sensation was unbelievable, and I started to moan uncontrollably. His other hand was planted firmly on my butt cheek, grabbing at my flesh.

Then his voice was in my ear, cruelly taunting me. "Shall I fuck you this time? Do you want me to put my cock in you?"

"Yes! Oh — please, yes …." I begged shamelessly; my body was crying out for it.

He pulled away from me for a moment and I saw him in the mirror, undoing his belt and pulling off first his jeans and boxer briefs, then his top. He came up behind me again, his angular hipbone jutting into me. He spread my legs apart forcefully with his hand and stroked between them again, where I was hot and wet. He used my wetness to coat his fingers then rubbed them in delicious circles over my sensitive clit, making me whimper. Then he slid two fingers inside me as well and began pumping them in and out. The blood was pulsing there, making me hyper-aware of the sensations. I felt like I was steadily losing my mind.

After touching me like this until I was wild with desire, he suddenly pulled away again, leaving me almost crying in frustration. When he didn't return, I stood up and turned my head to see where he was. He'd walked over to the bedside table to pull out a condom. Well, a whole strip of them in fact.

"The organisers were giving all these out," he said with an exaggerated wink, holding the strip up and tearing one packet off. "I took, just in case ..."

I giggled, and walked over to him to stand by the bed. He was naked now, his thick, erect cock standing out proudly from his muscular body. I watched him tear open the packet and roll the condom on. He guided me down onto the bed so that I was lying on my back, and knelt at my feet on the bed with his legs apart. He lifted my legs up so they were spread wide, one over each of his, and pinned my ankles down with his strong hands. He lifted up the bottom of the red material covering me and traced his fingers softly across my belly and down to my inner thighs, barely skimming closer to where I ached for him, teasing until I was squirming and moaning.

Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he lined himself up at my entrance and pushed inside, filling me. Then he began thrusting, looking down at me as he moved in and out. Seeing myself lying there, being fucked by this amazing man whilst wearing his red jersey, was sexy as hell. I craved more still though, even more sensation. Edward seemed to sense that. That dirty mouth of his made a return.

"It feels so fucking good, Bella … I want to make you come."

My body reacted instantly; I felt myself getting even wetter, just managing to bite out a, "Yes" in reply. He removed one of his hands from where it had been holding my ankle down, moving it to rub my clit, while he continued to thrust into me hard and fast, and my moaning turned into screams as I started to unravel completely, intense waves of pleasure washing over me.

Once I could think clearly, I felt Edward moving inside me again, gliding more gently at first but building up his pace so that he was pounding deliciously deep. I was moaning in time with his rhythm, my excitement building again.

His eyes were dark and his breathing was heavy.

Knowing that he was getting close too was enough to set me off, and I cried out, my inner walls fluttered and tightening around his cock.

"Oh God! Fuck." Edward thrust a couple more times then groaned roughly as he came.

He collapsed onto the bed to lie down beside me. Once we got our breath back, he twisted his body to face me and kissed me tenderly, whilst rubbing circles on my back with his hand.

~ DfF ~

Edward had drifted off to sleep, so after a little while I gently woke him by bringing him a vending machine coffee. It was an hour until the Poland–USA match was due to begin. Paul knew about our relationship now, and was fine with it, so he'd helped me swap my shifts so that I could be there. It had been unintentional, but putting Edward in this sleepy, blissed-out state was probably the best way for him to face the afternoon. For now, his fears and worries were pushed aside.

Unfortunately, Edward's good mood wasn't enough to protect him from the nervous start made by Poland. The USA won the first set decisively. They had some big-hitters on the team, and Poland seemed to be slow to adjust to that. The second set was looking much the same, with the USA leading by a wide margin. Edward's head was in his hands, too scared to watch his team, who looked likely to be going out. My loyalties were torn, but I found myself supporting Poland over my own home country. I cared about Edward, so I wanted what would make him happy. And his teammates had been so welcoming to me, an outsider, that I felt truly invested in their success … I'd seen how well they could play, so I was willing them to turn this around.

The Polish Coach called a technical time-out to give his team some vital encouragement, also substituting a player in the line up to tighten up the team's defence. Slowly, they caught up until they were only two points behind. They seemed to get their rhythm back, managing to win the set. From that point onwards, their confidence restored, Poland's game went from strength to strength and they sailed through to win the next two sets. They'd done it! They'd beaten the USA, to get through to the semi-finals! I gave Edward an excited hug and was so glad to see the mixture of delight and relief lighting up his face.

~ DfF ~

Edward's sprained ankle had healed nicely, so he had been able to build up his training again in time to play in one of the two semi-final matches. Whatever the result of this match, Poland would be through to an Olympic final. The winners of each semi would face each other to decide the Gold and Silver medals, whilst the losers would be competing for the Bronze.

I watched Poland triumph over Brazil 3–2, meaning they were through to the Gold medal match! If they could only keep up this level of play, maybe the Gold was really a possibility. Though there was still a tough game ahead: they were up against Russia in the final.

"Brazil is one of the top teams, so I'm really happy we have beaten them," Edward told me. "But Russia is even tougher. They have a lot of really big hitters. It's not over yet. We'll do our best, but even a silver medal would be amazing for us."

I was glad that he seemed pragmatic about it, though I hoped when it came down to it, he wouldn't be too torn if they didn't make the Gold.

~ DfF ~

Edward and his team had ramped up their focus for the Gold medal game tomorrow so much that I didn't get to see him. I understood why, of course, though it was hard; I was all too aware that our time together was running out. Tomorrow was the final day of the Olympics, and the Closing Ceremony was that evening. The team was staying in the Village tomorrow night, then the next day they'd be flying back to Poland.

The day of the finals, the atmosphere of the arena was electric; both teams were ready to play for their medal hopes and their countries. The start of the match was tough to watch. Poland lost the first two sets by a significant difference in points, overwhelmed by the Russian opposition's powerful game.

They must have been feeling the pressure, but they didn't lose focus. They fought to remain level with Russia during the third set and won it by a small margin. Edward had been substituted out some time ago, but came back early into the fourth set, rested, and raring to go once more. Now Poland's game really came into its own. I watched some beautiful dig, set and spike combinations between the players; they were working together flawlessly, predicting one another's moves and positions time after time. It reminded me of what Edward had said about team spirit; the Polish players were working as a single unit to stop their Gold medal hopes from slipping through their fingers. Their determination paid off and they dominated the fourth set, striking blow after blow to decisively secure a 2–2 tie and take the match into a fifth, deciding set.

Mike reminded me that in the fifth set it was the first to reach at least 15 points (with a two point lead) rather than the normal 25. It had been closely fought so far, but Russia was slightly in the lead. Their captain served an ace, taking them to 13–11, two points away from a Gold medal. But then the referee's whistle blew, causing the players to look around, mid-celebration, in confusion.

"He stepped over the line when he served, that's a foot foul," Mike explained.

The referee made hand signals to the server, who walked up to argue in frustration, but he remained firm, so now it was the Poles who were celebrating! The point was awarded in their favour, making the score 12–12.

I watched in a daze, as Edward's team won the next two points, securing themselves a match point. The crowd were going wild, singing and cheering. It was Emmett to serve now. He looked amazingly calm and sent a strong, solid serve over the net, starting off a nail-biting rally. I almost couldn't watch; they were so close. Several times, one of the teams looked as if they would be unable to return the ball to the opposition's side, but somehow pulled it off. Finally, Edward managed to use his blocking skills at the net, patting it down over the net, winning the point — and the match. That was it, they'd won the Gold! Unbelievable! I squealed excitedly, so happy for him.

The Polish team were instantly in a rapturous huddle, slapping and hugging each other. Everyone on the Polish crew: the coach, trainers, and players on the bench, all ran to join in the victory celebrations. I didn't think it would look that strange if I were to go on to the court. There were so many people, would anyone really notice? I looked over to Paul and he seemed to guess what I was thinking, giving me a subtle nod, so I ran over to Edward. Jasper was beside him and picked me up in the air in his excitement, with Edward and Emmett looking on in amusement. Once he'd put me down, I gave Edward a hug, full of feeling, sharing in his joy.

The match ended mid-afternoon. The victory ceremony happened soon after. It was quite something, seeing all twelve tall men on each of the three medal-winning teams — Poland, Russia and Brazil — walking into the arena to the Chariots of Fire music and stepping up onto the long podiums. Edward and the rest of the Polish team wore matching white trousers and white zipped up jackets with red trim and 'Polska' emblazoned in red letters across the front. The team came on smiling and waving, as they stepped onto the highest podium, in the middle. They were presented with their Gold medals, to the pure delight of the large Polish contingent in the crowd. I felt so immensely proud when the suit-clad official placed the Gold medal around Edward's neck, and his name was called out over the speakers. I only felt a tiny pang of sadness that I'd never been in his position, but now that time felt like worlds away. After the Polish national anthem had played, the team lifted their arms up in celebration and cheered. Then Edward looked over at me, holding his medal up with a beaming smile, and I waved back proudly.

The rest of the day flew by. I sat beside Edward to watch the music and dance performances of the Closing Ceremony, followed by fireworks. As with the rest of the team, he was tired, but on a high. We all partied and drank late into the night in a fitting celebration of the, perhaps, once in a lifetime moment for the team. They'd fought and won for their national pride and the top achievement in their sport. It felt special to be even a small part of it.

We'd mostly avoided the topic of what would happen after the Olympics, wanting to savour what we had without questioning it too much … something short-lived but undeniably special. Our lives had touched each other's and would leave lasting memories, but after the Olympics, they just didn't logically fit together. We lived in different countries and Edward had a busy calendar, travelling a lot.

But when the final day arrived, the airport goodbye just hours away, neither of us was quite ready to let go. We decided that we could try to stay in touch, and talked about me visiting Edward in Poland as soon as I could get more time off work. Maybe it was just delaying the inevitable, but it seemed crazy to just let go of something with this much potential. After all, Edward had just won a Gold medal … nothing was impossible.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts.**

** Just in case anyone is re-reading the chapter: I've had to change the name of the volunteer coordinator character. You'll see why later.**


	2. Fire Doesn't Burn Itself

**A/N: Sorry it's been a long wait, but I hope you'll enjoy the continuation - I appreciate you coming back! Or finding me if you're new.**

**Thank you to my pre-reader NinaQ for helping me to improve the initial draft. Thanks also to Emergency Beta Service and Project Team Beta, especially my betas for this chapter: ****2Shaes and bigblueboat, for the help and encouragement.**

**Sorry if you got a dead alert yesterday, FFn was playing up, hopefully it'll work this time! :)**

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The departures hall at London Heathrow airport was packed. There must have been other Olympic athletes in the crowd as well as spectators and tourists, but our odd-looking group still caused a few curious stares. One short, brunette girl accompanied by twelve extremely tall, athletic men was bound to attract attention. They were dressed in matching grey training sweats. Anyone looking closely would have seen the small Polish flag and the word _Polska_ on the left breast of their polo shirts.

As well as looking tiny beside them and being of the wrong gender, I was the only one not wheeling a suitcase behind me. In all, I was sure I stood out like a sore thumb. But the truth was, I felt strangely at home with these guys, especially considering the short time I'd known them. Superficially, I had little in common with them — not even a native language, though all of them could speak some English. Despite this, they'd been so friendly and had never questioned my temporary presence amongst them. Their laid-back acceptance of me could have been in a large part down to their respect for their teammate, Edward. I was Edward's girl now, and the tightly-knit team knew it and made me feel welcome.

We stopped walking and let the others get ahead of us. Edward parked his case beside him, put one hand on my shoulder and then placed a kiss on the top of my head. He looked down at me, his green eyes sparkling with a familiar tenderness. I mentally added that look to the growing list of things I'd miss when he was gone.

"I must go and check in my bag with the others."

The musical tones of his Polish accent were another thing that had become dear to me.

He indicated across the hall to his teammates, who were standing at the back of a long line at the airline check-in desk. "It could be a long time — why don't you look at the shops, and I can meet you afterwards? I should still have some time."

The minutes were ticking down now. My gut instinct was to spend every last moment with him — not to leave him. But I didn't want to seem too clingy, and maybe a little time to organise my thoughts would be a good thing. Standing in line with lots of other people was hardly quality time together, anyway.

"Okay, well shall we meet over at the Costa Coffee in fifteen minutes?" I said, pointing to the nearest café. "Or I'll phone you if you aren't there by then."

"Yes, okay then." He smiled.

Edward started walking towards the check-in desks with his case while I turned to walk in the opposite direction. My mind felt chaotic as I walked into a bookstore. I couldn't focus on any of the titles in front of me.

I gave up and just went early to the café. I ordered a cappuccino and took a seat on a barstool. I stirred sugar into the cup and stared blankly at the crowds milling about in front of me as I thought things over.

I couldn't get my head around the fact that it was all coming to an end so fast, that he was really leaving. The last two weeks had felt pretty surreal. It was amazing enough that I had been personally involved in the Olympics as a volunteer, let alone getting together with one of the athletes. A _gold-medal _winning athlete, at that.

We'd become very close, even in such a short time. We had both known that our time together would soon come to an end, and this had brought an added intensity to our developing relationship, making it move faster than it likely would have in a normal situation. Yeah, _normal_ was so far away from whatever this was.

I wasn't totally sure how I felt about Edward or whether it was realistic to think about us having a future together. Of course, I was upset that he was leaving, but that was only natural — I cared about him, and we'd seemed to have something special.

Okay, we had both said that we wanted to meet again and to take it from there, but that's just what people said in these situations, wasn't it? If you really liked someone, it wasn't easy to just bid them goodbye, forever. For your own sanity and to protect their feelings, there didn't seem any other option but to believe that there was always some hope.

But when it came down to it, I wasn't sure if either of us was genuinely prepared to travel hundreds, no, probably _thousands_ of miles to see one another again. If I went all that way just for a visit, wouldn't we just be in the same situation once I got home again? And Edward had to travel a lot as a volleyball player, so even if things were different and we did live in the same country, I might not see him that often. The whole idea was crazy. I had to think with my head, not with my heart, or I'd only get myself hurt.

I shook my head, as if that would clear out any errant thoughts of something that wasn't to be. Just as I was reaching the froth at the bottom of my cup, Edward appeared.

I could sense him before I even looked up. It was as though his presence caused a slight shift in the atmosphere. Some minute, yet discernible, alteration of the particles around me. It wasn't the first time that I'd noticed it. I was amazed that I could be the only one affected, yet the rest of the world went on oblivious.

_Shit!_ The moment that he was back, I was getting carried away again, too attached.

A slight look of concern crossed his beautiful features, and he brushed my cheek with his fingers.

"Are you okay, Bella?"

Why did he have to be so perceptive? Things would be so much easier today if he was a typical unobservant male.

I could feel the tension in my face, so I tried my best to lighten up the thoughts that were causing me to frown.

"Hi, Edward. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Can I get you another drink?"

"How long have we got before ..." I asked, not wanting to finish the question, as if him leaving wouldn't become real if I didn't.

But he knew what I meant. "My flight? Probably half an hour before I must go to _bramki_ … um, to the gate."

"Okay, I'll have another coffee then — a cappuccino, please."

"No problem."

I watched him walk away towards the cash desk. Sadly, most of his fit body was covered up by his baggy training clothes. He'd put a long-sleeved, grey sweatshirt on over the polo-necked top he'd been wearing earlier; I could see its collar underneath. But his height and the easy confidence in the way he carried himself were sexy in themselves.

He returned, setting our drinks on the table and then taking a seat on the bar stool beside me, his long legs brushing against mine. In contrast to my own shot nerves, Edward seemed pretty relaxed. We just chatted, both carefully avoiding the question of our future. I asked him what he would be doing once he got back to Poland.

"Probably we will have to talk to the press and appear on TV," he said, laughing, but wriggling a bit in his seat as if the idea made him uncomfortable. "But after that, I have no matches for three weeks, so it's sort of a holiday for me."

"So are you going anywhere? For a vacation?" I asked.

"Only in Poland … I will visit my family. We will train again after two weeks, but there are only friendly matches with my club to start with. The Polish league volleyball season begins in October."

"What's your team called?" I felt bad that I didn't know already, but he hadn't mentioned it before. I hadn't really thought about who he played with apart from the Polish national team.

"Orły Warszawa. It means Warsaw Eagles. I've been with them for three years. They came second in the Polish league last year." He smiled whilst talking about them, obviously full of pride for his team.

"Wow, second? That's really good!" I tried to think of something else intelligent to ask, still not knowing enough about volleyball to know what to say. "And I guess the Polish league is at a very high level, compared to other countries?"

"Yes, I suppose we have some of the best players and coaches in the world. With also Brazil and Italy."

From what I'd seen, this was definitely true, but his tone wasn't arrogant. I liked the fact that he was still humble about his team's success as well as hi own, even after he had won two gold medals representing his country, all in one year. A gold in the volleyball World League — I wasn't sure what that was, but it sounded good — and now another at the Olympics.

While it was a welcome distraction, talking about something other than our impending separation, I did wonder what his thoughts were on it. Wasn't he even bothered by it? Or maybe he was just still on a high from his gold medal and couldn't think of much else. I decided that I wasn't going to bring it up if he didn't. Maybe that was a mistake. I probably should have been facing up to things, but it was just easier not to. I told myself it was preferable to have happy last memories of him when he was gone than a tearful goodbye.

Shit, I was being really rude here, totally lost in my own thoughts. I looked over to Edward; he was looking down at the table between us with a slightly odd expression. Following his line of sight down to where my hands rested there, I realised that I'd been absent-mindedly playing with the pot containing sugar sachets. I'd taken out about half of them and formed those into a neat circle in front of me. Embarrassed at my show of weirdness in front of Edward, I messed up the circle with one swipe of my hand and then pushed my hair from my face. Fidgeting with my hair was another thing I did when I was nervous, as well as creating artwork from the condiments, apparently.

I had to fill the silence again, so I blurted out the first question I could think of.

"Um … so you said you're from Warsaw, right? Is that where your family is, too?"

"Warsaw, right — yes, I live there now. But I only moved there when I joined the club. I grew up in a little village called Samki … in the North of Poland, and that's where my family lives still."

"What's it like there?"

"It's small, like I said, so quite traditional." He looked happy, a dreamy look on his face as he spoke. "And it's very beautiful. It's near the coast and is also on the edge of a forest — "

As he spoke, my mind started drifting off again. I knew I wasn't taking in what he was saying anymore, but at least his melodic voice was soothing. At first, I was picturing the two of us together in a sun-dappled forest clearing, but the sweetness of that image quickly turned to bitterness knowing just how unlikely that was to ever happen.

Maybe the old me would have taken this chance and run with it? But since my own Olympic dreams had been dashed, I'd lost any sense of courage to take a risk like that; it would just get me hurt. Starting something with Edward had been a deviation from that cautiousness, and it'd been great while it had lasted. But now it had left me in this mess.

Edward was still describing his home town; the topic had got him unusually talkative. I felt bad that I hadn't really been listening, but perhaps it was best in a way — I'd never get to see this place, anyway. I sneaked a look at my watch; our time together was rapidly running out.

"Bella?" I thought I'd gone unnoticed, but I felt his long fingers curling around my delicate metal wristwatch. He gazed into my eyes, a fiery determination burning in his own. "You're right, we don't have much time now. But it doesn't have to be long before you see me again. If you want ..."

He did still think we were going to meet up again then. But fuck knows what I thought anymore. The whole thing was illogical, too much to get my head around.

I suppose he wanted a response from me, but my brain was fried. He waited for a minute, then leaned towards me and hugged me tightly. I didn't pull away; it felt right somehow. I couldn't deny that I still felt strongly about him. Being enveloped by his familiar smell and his warmth, I felt as if for a few moments there was no crowded airport, no imminent flight — it was just the two of us. He just held me there, in his strong arms, for several minutes. I felt my frayed nerves gradually beginning to calm. Then finally, he moved away.

He stood up and picked up his hand luggage from beside his feet. "Can I make a photo of us together?" he asked, pulling out his phone from a front pocket.

He stood by me, holding the camera phone out at arm's length to take a photo of us both, his other arm around me. I managed a genuine smile, thinking about our heights; for once I wasn't totally dwarfed by him, but only because I was still sitting on the bar stool.

"I wish I had a real camera," he said, scrunching up his face, totally unimpressed with what he saw on the screen.

I laughed. "At least you didn't make _that_ face for the photo."

He stuck his tongue out at me, playfully. "You love my handsome looks."

Stupid faces or not, I wasn't about to argue with that.

"I know, look!" His enthusiasm was contagious. He took hold of my hand and grabbed his messenger bag then led me a few steps out of the café. I soon saw what he was pointing to: a passport photo booth.

"I want a photo of us for my wallet."

For his wallet? Wasn't that something proper couples did? Though I was uncertain that was what we were, a rush of excitement went through me at the thought that he wanted a reminder of me with him when we were apart.

He left his bag just in front of the booth where we could see it. Feeling like a silly teenager with her first boyfriend, I squeezed in with him, pulling the curtain closed. He had to duck his head down and fold up his long legs awkwardly. I sat on his lap, not really having any other option if I wanted to fit with him into the small space. But I enjoyed the feeling of being this close to him again.

"Have you got some money?" I asked. It was five pounds, and the machine only took pound coins.

"Yes, I've got all these British coins I need to use up," Edward said. He leaned in closer and spoke into my ear, his voice suddenly rough and lusty. "But they're all in my pocket, and that's under you."

He slid a hand in between me and his lap. But he certainly wasn't going for his pocket; he spread his fingers out to cup my ass firmly through my short skirt. I think I let out a surprised squeal, and I could feel my heart beating faster, along with the pulsing that had started between my legs.

His hand pushed underneath the material of my skirt and skimmed against my panties. I could feel his growing erection pushing against my thigh, unrestrained by the soft cotton of his training pants. I knew I was getting wet in response. I wanted him.

Despite knowing these were some of our last minutes together, or maybe _because_ of it, I couldn't control my arousal. I hadn't experienced such passionate sex with anyone else, and it was a crime how few chances we'd had so far. This was our last one for … well, I didn't want to think about that.

His dirty whisperings in my ear were a welcome distraction.

"_Fuck_, Bella. You love it, don't you? Me touching you like this." He continued to move his hand on me, and I trembled in anticipation. "Even here, where people could see. What would you let me do to you?"

He made a pass with two fingers along the waistband of my underwear and then another across my inner thigh, but he remained frustratingly outside of the material. It was becoming impossible for me to think about anything but him touching me. I moaned quietly, mentally begging him to go further, to connect with my flesh where it was burning for him; I wanted him to feel how wet I was. I was so close to letting him fuck me right here in the photo booth of a busy airport, only partially hidden from the crowds by that thick blue curtain. It didn't reach the ground, so I knew that our entangled legs would be visible. But I was horny as fuck and past caring.

But then his hand moved in the wrong direction, away from my need. He put his hand in his pants pocket, and then removed it from us completely, leaving me gasping in futile desperation. I heard him slotting coins into the photo machine.

"Smile now, Bella," he said, his voice still thick with desire.

He put his arm around me to pose as the machine emitted warning beeps and a countdown showed up on the screen. I looked up, and I could see us on the screen, the green square showing that our faces were going to be within the border of the photo. I hardly recognised myself; my face was flushed with arousal and my eyes were dark. Edward looked even sexier than usual, his hair in complete disarray and a delicious smirk on his face.

I managed a small smile, despite my frustration.

The flash went off, capturing the two of us like that.

He gave me a little push, indicating that I should get up. I wasn't happy about it but was still in too much of a daze to argue. I smoothed down my skirt as I got off his lap and then opened the curtain. I'd lost all control of my legs so I almost fell out of the booth. I hoped desperately that nobody would recognise the thwarted lust on my face.

Fuck, what was the man doing to me? I had gone from thinking I'd never see him again to out of my mind with desire for him in a _highly _public place. My mood swings were giving me whiplash.

I blushed, embarrassed at — but still sort of liking — how easily he could control me. This was another reminder of the sort of risk and passion that had been lacking in my life for a long time before meeting Edward. And I supposed it would be gone again when he was.

Edward followed me, making subtle adjustments to his noticeable bulge before stepping out of the photo booth and straightening up to his full height. He still had that sexy smirk, knowing what he could do to me.

After a few minutes, the machine spat out the developed photos into a tray on the side. Edward took them and had a look himself before handing me one of the two strips of passport photos.

We both looked good, but the arousal was clear on our faces.

"This is how I want to remember you: beautiful and ready for me to fuck you," he said.

A young couple walked past within earshot, but thankfully, seemed not to react.

He folded up the strip of photos he'd been holding so that just one was showing and slid it into the clear plastic section of his wallet. Just as he'd promised. Then he took the remaining photos from my hand.

"Have you got a pen?" he asked.

I didn't reply, still rendered speechless. But I usually had one with me, so I checked in my purse. Edward watched me with an amused look on his face as I took out other items one by one: my cellphone, wallet and keys. It took a while since I couldn't remember which section it'd be in, but eventually I produced a blue Biro with a satisfied flourish.

He took the pen from me and wrote something on the back of the strip of photos, handing it back to me with a smile. He'd written his email address and phone number on the back in swirly handwriting. It was a landline number, beginning with +48 for Poland.

So he _did_ want to stay in touch. I wished I'd known that when I was freaking out earlier. I guess I should have just asked him; it seemed silly now.

"Should I give you my details?" I asked.

But he shook his head. "No. That's okay. I will leave it up to you, Bella. You can contact me if you want to." He smiled down at me. "But, of course, I really hope that you will. And you're welcome to come and visit me in Poland if that's what you want."

It was really thoughtful that he was handling it like this. I took his hand, grateful that he wasn't pressuring me into making any promises I wasn't comfortable with or rushing me. But also, I was excited that he wanted to stay in touch and to see me again.

Edward's cellphone rang, and he answered, "_Cześć_, Emmett."

After a short pause, Edward spoke a little more in Polish, wrapping his tongue easily around what to me were such unfamiliar sounds, and then hung up.

"We should go and find the other guys now. They were waiting for me to come back before they went through security," he said, apologetically.

Knowing that this might be our last moment alone together — well, without a whole team looking on — I threw myself at him for a hug. He bent down to make it easier, and we kissed. It was sweet and full of passion, but of a more restrained sort than our little photo booth encounter.

Still holding hands, we walked across the departures hall, past some shops and towards a seating area where the rest of his teammates were. They occupied two whole rows of seats opposite one another. Emmett and Jasper stood up when they saw us.

"Edek! _Gdzie byłaś? _Where have you been, man?" Emmett said in his American-tinged Polish accent, playfully pushing Edward in the arm with his fist, his developed biceps flexing. "Have you been distracting him, Bella?" he asked me, sounding serious, but with a definite twinkle in his eye.

"Er … I …" I blushed, glad that he couldn't read my mind and find out exactly what nature of distractions I'd provided.

"We had a lot to discuss, Emmett. You know what it's like. You have to leave Rose sometimes when we travel," Edward said, coming to my rescue. It was partly true, at least.

While we'd been talking, the rest of the volleyball players were standing up, gathering their bags and putting on jackets, ready to go. Seeing them, Edward gave me a hug and said, "Well … I'm sorry, we have to go."

He pulled out of our embrace, but I caught him by the arms, holding tightly onto each arm so that he couldn't leave me yet. I wasn't ready to let go yet. The others filed past us. He gave Emmett a nod to say he'd follow shortly, and they started to walk towards the direction of security.

We snatched a few more precious moments together. He just held me there at first and then started to stroke my hair soothingly.

I didn't know I was capable of feeling this many different things in one day. My emotional rollercoaster had hit its inevitable downward turn: a vertical plummet into the unknown. What had been thrilling was now scary and felt like it was ending too fast. I pleaded with myself not to cry.

He bent his knees so that his head was level with mine. But kissing was awkward that way, and I wanted to make it count this time. So I jumped up to loop my legs around him. He hoisted me up in one easy move, securing me to his body. Our kiss was soft, sweet, and lingering.

I gazed into his green eyes, hoping to communicate to him how much I cared about him. I probably couldn't have found the words at that moment, even if I'd tried, but I felt like we didn't need to speak. I didn't know what our future held, but I knew now that him leaving would feel like something precious being ripped away from me. I really didn't want him to leave, but he had to. He had to get his flight.

He placed me down gently, and we walked the last few steps to the airport security, holding hands until the last possible moment. At least I had managed not to cry.

I felt detached from reality, as if I was watching someone else: a character in an episode of _Friends_ or in one of those girlie movies my friend had made me watch with her. I was assaulted by memories of all those on screen airport goodbyes. This was the moment I was meant to declare my undying love and stop Edward from leaving, right? Or maybe I should have bought myself a plane ticket to some random city so that I could have gone through security too.

But it _was_ reality, and life just wasn't like that. I watched him join one of the lines to get to the baggage screening. He looked back at me one last time before he disappeared into the crowd.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought.**


	3. Ain't no Sunshine When He's Gone

**A/N: I'm back! Thank you to my amazing pre-reader NinaQ: I'm so lucky to have you! Also big thanks to PTB and this chapter's betas, TDS88 and hammondgirl. :)**

* * *

It was hard to believe that it had only been a few hours since I had travelled towards Heathrow airport; it had been an emotional morning. Now, I was leaving in a black cab, alone except for the driver, and in a subdued mood. It was a stark contrast to the journey towards the airport in a coach full of over-exuberant male volleyball players, still ecstatic from their gold medal win.

The back seat of the taxi, where I sat, was divided from the driver by a transparent plastic screen with an open section. I leaned forward to give him directions: I wanted him to take me back to the volunteers' dormitory first, to get the rucksack I'd left there. Then I was headed to a budget hotel that the airport tourist information desk had found for me.

The driver was very talkative, trying to start up friendly conversation, occasionally glancing up into his rear-view mirror to look at me as he spoke. He had grey hair and was probably in his fifties. Maybe on any other day, his strong Cockney accent and bad jokes would've made me smile and open up to him — but not today.

I answered his well-meaning questions about why I was in London. He seemed interested to hear more when I'd told him I'd been volunteering at the Olympics. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it, because it was really the _last_ thing I wanted to talk — or think — about right then. This reluctance must have come across in my short answers, so the one-sided conversation soon dried up. The cabbie turned the volume up a little on his cheesy pop radio station and left me to my own thoughts.

I looked out of the cab window. It was a hot August day, and above the busy London roads was a beautiful blue sky with barely a cloud in it. _Maybe if I keep looking up, I'll see the plane that's taking Edward so many miles away from me._

I sighed and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the empty, aching feeling in my chest.

It was pointless to dream about him now. The time we'd spent together over the past two weeks had been amazing, and I didn't regret any of it, but the Olympics were over now, and I had to return to everyday life. It was going to be much harder to do that if I didn't try to get him off my mind.

I was hoping that some time relaxing would help me do that. I'd decided to stay in London for a couple more nights to make the most of my last few days off from work. I'd hardly seen the place, really. The long volunteer shifts had been tiring, and when I wasn't spending time with Edward, I'd mostly just wanted to sleep. Even if I didn't do any sightseeing, perhaps I could have a little retail therapy. There would be a wider variety of shops in London, and bigger ones than in Oxford.

The taxi was slowing down. We pulled up in front of the youth hostel that had served as dorms for me and some of the other Olympic volunteers. I got out of the cab to quickly go inside, leaving the driver waiting with his engine running.

The brunette receptionist at the front desk was the same woman who'd been there when I'd first arrived. I asked her for my rucksack, and she went to the luggage room to fetch it for me.

I was glad not to have to see my bedroom again. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I remembered the night I'd brought Edward back here. We'd both been drunk and more than a little horny. It was the first night we'd spent together. Then ... wow ... the things we'd done in a shared dorm room on the top bunk bed. I still couldn't believe it, looking back. It felt illicit even _thinking_ about it.

The woman came back and handed me the rucksack, and I thanked her. But judging by the strange look she gave me, I wasn't doing a very good job at hiding my thoughts. I think I must have had a crazy grin on my face, which seemed a little extreme for the situation. I blushed and muttered an awkward goodbye, stumbling out of the youth hostel back towards the waiting cab.

~ DfF ~

I'd recovered my manners in time to pay the taxi driver, adding a small tip. At the budget hotel, I filled out the check-in forms at reception and paid for two nights by credit card. The receptionist handed me a key and directed me to a room on the second floor. The room was small and basic — with brown and orange bedding and curtains that probably would've seemed ugly even in the seventies — but at least it was clean. I slung my rucksack onto the floor, took off my shoes, and slumped onto the bed.

It was only midday, but I couldn't muster the motivation to do anything or go anywhere. I found the remote on the bedside table and turned on the small TV opposite the bed. I flicked through the channels, not finding much of interest — only an old cowboy and western movie and a confrontational talk show. I paused when I got to a news channel and watched the headlines. But then they moved onto sports and started showing Olympics highlights — not quite the escapism I had been hoping for. I changed over again. The hotel only had the free-to-view channels, so it wasn't long before I'd exhausted all the choices.

I huffed and turned off the TV. Now what could I do to amuse myself? I couldn't exactly stay in this tiny room all day. I got off the bed to look at the bathroom; maybe I could have a nice relaxing bubble bath. But sadly, there was only a shower, so there went that idea, too.

What I needed was someone to give me a good kick in the butt to stop me feeling sorry for myself. Also, the company would be great. But failing that, I'd settle for hearing a friendly voice.

I picked up my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts, seeing Edward's name on the way to the one I was looking for. I hesitated before clicking on it. The number I had for him wouldn't work because he'd been using a temporary British SIM card. Even if I had another number, I couldn't call him now anyway because he'd still be on the plane.

Actually, I needed to add his other contact details to my phone before I lost them. I took my passport out of my handbag and found the strip of photos that I'd put between its pages for safe-keeping. Edward had written his email address and Polish landline number on the back. They happened to be writing side-up, so I added the details safely into my phone. But I couldn't help turning the strip of photos over for one more look.

Our faces stared out at me in triplicate, glowing unmistakeably with arousal. The memories of what we'd done — or rather, almost done — in the photo booth were still fresh in my mind, and my stomach flipped with excitement, causing flutters that went lower down. But not long after that came the ache at being without Edward, and not knowing if, or when, I would see him again.

_Fuck this, _I thought. _No more moping._

Looking at my phone again, I scrolled down to the number I'd initially intended to call: my flatmate from Oxford. But I couldn't face talking to him just yet. I'd have to tell him about Edward. I wanted to do that, to get his take on things, but I could talk to him when I got home. He'd gone this long without knowing — he could wait a few more days.

The thought of staying in the hotel room any longer with no company but my own thoughts was depressing. I supposed I could have had an early night to catch up on sleep. But after all the excitement of the last few weeks, it would feel anti-climatic.

I wanted the remainder of my stay to be purely about escapism, plain and simple. The best kind I could think of was shopping until my brain glazed over enough to stop me from over-thinking — and then getting incredibly drunk, just to make sure. But I needed a drinking-partner. Going to a bar alone wasn't my idea of fun, and it might get me unwanted male attention.

I rang the only person I knew who lived in London.

"Hey, Bella!" came Jessica's impossibly energetic voice. "It's nice to hear from you! Did you get home safely?"

Okay, so ringing the girl who I'd volunteered with at the Olympics probably didn't count as avoidance, but perhaps a girls' night out would be good for me.

"Hi. Well, actually, I'm still in London. That's why I'm calling you … I was wondering if you were free tonight? I could do with a drink, and you said to ring you if I was nearby."

"I did, but I meant if you came backhere sometime. This is a bit sooner than I expected to hear from you." She giggled.

"Yeah … sorry about that," I said. "I know it's short notice, so you're probably busy." Maybe tonight was off, then.

"No, not really … it'd be nice. It could be like goodbye drinks, or something."

I didn't know Jess very well, and she got on my nerves a little so far, but I needed a change of scenery and some company — someone to vent with. And anything had to be better than being alone in the hotel room any longer.

"Cool! So do you know somewhere we can go?"

"What do you fancy? A club? Just us, or shall I ask some friends too?"

"Um … no, do you mind if it's just us? And somewhere a bit quieter where we can talk, if that's all right with you."

"Sounds ominous."

I thought I detected a hint of glee. "No. Not really, it's just a weird feeling … the Olympics being over all of a sudden. And I could do with some company."

"Okay, then. I know this bar. It's got cool music but not too loud, and we can go for Happy Hour. The cocktails there are great!"

"Sounds good to me."

She gave me directions and we agreed on a time to meet.

Once I'd gotten off the phone, I realised that I was getting really hungry. Maybe it was a bit late to go shopping now if I had to eat first. I could go tomorrow. Getting out of this room was the main thing. I could just go down to reception and see if they could recommend somewhere to eat nearby.

~ DfF ~

Jess was right about the bar — it had a pretty good atmosphere, busy and with good music, yet not too noisy to talk.

We were already onto our second cocktails. My first had been a Cosmopolitan. But now I was drinking a Pink Cadillac, after Jess's bright idea to pick each other's drinks. It did taste nice, actually, despite being a very Barbie-doll shade of pink. I started laughing out loud: actually, we were like Barbie and Ken. Ken probably drank cocktails, right? I'd picked a Blue Hawaii for Jess, something with lots of rum in it — that was all I knew.

The vodka in mine was helping to relax me nicely. I'd been avoiding mentioning Edward so far, but now I was feeling comfortable enough to bring him up. I told her how I'd said goodbye to him at the airport.

"I don't know whether I should stay in touch with him or not. I miss him already," I admitted.

Jess took a drink from the blue concoction and then leaned towards me conspiratorially.

"I know I haven't known you very long yet, but you seem like a nice girl. Can I give you some advice?"

"Um … yeah, okay," I said, wondering what she meant.

"Men like Edward think they're too good for girls like us. He's always travelling to other countries for tournaments, right? He's probably got a different girl in each city."

I was pretty shocked to hear her bad-mouth him like that. Who was she to judge him, or what we had together? I felt my good mood vanishing.

At my lack of response, she kept talking. The girl clearly had no verbal filter. "He might have made you feel like you were special, but it's a very different thing once you're so far apart. If I were you, I'd just _move on_ and count yourself lucky that he didn't already break your heart."

"He honestly wasn't like that," I defended him, but it sounded weak even to my own ears. What if she was right?

"Yes, but Bella, how well do you really know him?" Jess asked, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, obviously sure of her argument.

I knew she was probably talking sense, but the way she jumped to conclusions and was so arrogant about it got right on my nerves. I decided to feign agreement in the hope of avoiding any further argument.

"I suppose you're right."

She didn't know when to shut up though. The more she spoke, the more I started to think that she was a catty bitch with no right to judge him or our relationship. I didn't know him very well, but it was a hell of a lot better than she did, and he didn't seem like the sort of person she was making him out to be. Or anything like her, for that matter.

I drank some more of my garish-pink cocktail, doing my best to control the strong desire to punch Jess in the face and walk out of the bar.

I wondered if her bitterness was just jealousy. She'd seemed envious right from the start, when I'd been assigned as the volunteer looking after Edward. I hadn't noticed her reaction to us after that, but maybe she really couldn't handle that he'd picked me and not her. Or perhaps a man had hurt her in the past, and she was projecting those experiences onto Edward. Perhaps she had a point, that I needed to be careful, but there was no need for a full-on character assassination.

I managed to change the subject quite easily once I figured out the trick; Jess was only too happy to talk about herself. After a few more cocktails, I hardly even minded. By the end of the night, I knew more than I'd ever wanted to about Jess's life, including her career ambitions and all about her 'evil' ex-boyfriend.

Realising I was exhausted, and pretty drunk, I bid her goodnight. My hotel wasn't anywhere near where she lived, so we got into separate cabs. We'd both gotten through the evening alive, but I wasn't in a hurry to see her again any time soon. Luckily, it was only a short journey back to my hotel.

Back in my room, I drunk-dialled the only person I could think of that I wanted to talk to right then.

"Bella? Hello! To what do I owe this pleasure?" came the familiar, rich voice.

"Sorry. Been busy," I slurred.

_Talking too much effort. Want sleep._

"Drunk, are we?" Jake sounded amused.

"Happy hour … yummy pink cocktails —" I remembered why I was calling "—Jess is a fucking bitch!"

"Wow, um, maybe tomorrow you can explain who Jess is and what she did to upset you. Get some sleep, Bella. Have a drink of water first, okay?"

I tried to stand up, but it was difficult with the room spinning.

"Bella?"

"Okay. Sick of London."

"You're still there? But the Olympics closing ceremony was last night, right?"

I nodded, vocalising with an "Mm," when I realised he was waiting for an answer he could hear.

"Well, you're in luck. I'm in London now for a job. I'll text you in the morning. Maybe we can meet up!"

"Okay. Thanks, Jake."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

I hung up and lay down on the bed. I pulled the covers over myself, too sleepy to care that I was still fully dressed.

~ DfF ~

I woke up the next morning, alone in an unfamiliar bed. I wondered where I was at first, but soon became aware as I glanced around, seeing the hotel room lit up by the daylight that was coming through the thin, ugly brown curtains.

I remembered quite a lot of last night. I'd had too much to drink and pretty much passed out. I was still in my jeans and top, no shoes though — that was something.

I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes, and looked in the mirror. I looked a state: I hadn't cleaned my teeth — yuck — or removed my make-up, and my hair was twice its normal size with all the frizz. Thankfully, I seemed to have got off lightly otherwise, with only a mild headache. Once I'd showered and had some breakfast, I'd be good as new.

_Oh._ Jake was going to be ringing me today. What had I said to him? Had I told him about Edward, or not? I think he'd said he was in London too, so I'd soon find out.

Even though I could remember all this now, I still had the feeling I was missing something.

I had a much-needed drink of water in the bathroom, wiped off some of my make-up, and then took a shower. I got dressed, doing my best to make my hair and face presentable before going downstairs. I didn't want to scare the other guests.

Another ten or so guests were already seated in the breakfast room, making it about half full. I chose a bowl of cornflakes from the limited selection of cold foods laid out on a table at one end of the room and gladly accepted a coffee and some toast when I was offered them. The BBC news was showing on a small television up on the wall. The volume was turned down to a level that was unobtrusive, which was probably nice if you were talking to whoever you were sitting with, but not so good for those of us who were alone; I could barely hear it.

Once I'd finished my breakfast, I definitely felt a lot more human with some food in my stomach.

On the way back to my room, I saw a guest with suitcases at reception and felt very strong déjà-vu. It brought back thoughts of airports and Edward … that was it, I was positive I'd dreamed about him last night. But nothing more was coming back to me yet.

Once back in my room, I kicked my sneakers off and sat cross-legged on the bed, closing my eyes. But no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't remember anything else about the dream.

I gave up and tried to tidy the room a little so that I could get ready to go out. Of course, now that I wasn't trying anymore, hazy details from the dream soon began to drip-feed back into my consciousness.

_Edward was holding me close, stroking my hair soothingly. I jumped up into his arms so that we could kiss. He put me down again, and then we held hands as we walked towards airport security._ It all happened just as it had yesterday, and yet … the feeling was different, somehow. It wasn't sad. Maybe it was just because it was a dream, and you feel things differently than in real life. Or maybe it was my mind trying to come to some sort of peace over him leaving.

Whatever the reason, I was grateful my heart felt a little lighter.

~ DfF ~

Jake had phoned shortly after breakfast, as he'd promised. I'd been about to leave the hotel, but since I'd intended to go shopping anyway, I happily agreed to meet him on Oxford Street. I could get the Tube from the hotel and be there in ten minutes.

He was actually keener on shopping than I was normally, but it'd be silly not to visit the big stores during my stay here. The experience would be more pleasant with his company, anyway. I'd known Jake since moving to Oxford three years ago, and we had lots in common: he was from America too, for one thing. We got on really well and had a similar sense of humour. So it had seemed only natural to move in with him once I'd felt ready to move out of my parents' UK house.

We were in the flagship branch of Topshop now. Jake was holding a couple of bags of clothes that I'd already bought elsewhere, so my hands were free to look through the rails at some tops.

"So, you said the volunteering thing was good, but you haven't really told me that much about the Olympics yet. Or why you haven't been in touch since the second day," Jake said.

I didn't reply straight away, distracted by the really tall guy on the other side of the rail of clothes. He was a good height, but once he turned so that I could see his face, he looked nothing like Edward. Great, now I had a thing for 7-foot tall men. Or just one in particular.

"Hello? Earth to Bella." He sounded a little stern, though there was amusement in his eyes once I turned to face him. "I bet there was a guy involved, and that's why I didn't hear from you."

I obviously hadn't said anything on the phone, then. He was probably just kidding with the comment — it'd been a while since I'd dated anyone — but I was caught off guard, blushing as I looked at him. Jake knew me well enough by now to read me pretty well.

"_Fuck_, I'm right, aren't I?" he said, surprised, pouncing on this information. "I bet it's a buff male gymnast. One of those guys with massive arm definition … who works the rings." Seeing my face scrunch up, he amended this theory. "No … wait — you're right, that would be too much. Maybe a floor-routine guy, they're more evenly developed. You actually met a gymnast? Fuck, I should've gone into sports journalism instead of music … all those tight bodies and rippling pecs." He was practically drooling.

I'm not sure I could ever go out with any sort of gymnast — I think it'd hurt to be around someone who was still succeeding in my former career. But he made me laugh by focusing in on this, and not asking about whether the Olympics experience had helped me move on, like my parents probably would.

"Not exactly ..."

I started to tell him about Edward, and about how I'd met him. I didn't know why I'd been hesitating in telling him; it felt so good to share it with someone more supportive than Jess.

~ DfF ~

Now we were sitting at a table in a burger joint upstairs in the shopping mall's food court. We both had shopping bags by our feet. After I'd gotten fed up of women's shops, I'd helped choose clothes for Jake.

He finished the last of his burger and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So can I see that picture of him now?"

"Okay … I guess."

I reached for my handbag, but thought better of showing Jake the only photo of him I owned yet. Instead, I felt for the familiar shape of my smartphone inside my bag.

I typed "Edward Cullenski volleyball" into the search engine. At least his name wasn't too difficult to spell, now that I'd become familiar with it. This would make the first time that I'd Googled my sort-of-boyfriend, I realised. Pretty surreal, but then so was everything about this relationship.

A whole load of images came up, and I selected one of him at the Olympics in the red version of his team's uniform. It was a full-length photo and showed his tall, muscular build off perfectly.

"Holy fuck, Bella, he's _hot_!"

I smiled. "I know, right?" There was no question about it in my mind, but it was still nice to hear Jake agree.

He leaned in to peer more closely at the phone, and swiped through several other images of Edward playing, some alone and some with other players. Some of the uniforms I didn't recognise: they must have been of him playing for his club rather than for the national team. Jake paused to appreciate one showing a close-up of Edward's face, framed by his untamed, slightly coppery coloured hair. He had a dusting of stubble, stunning green eyes, and dark pink lips. He looked almost unreal.

"Woah. He's _gorgeous_." Jake glanced at me. "Prettier than you, in fact."

"Oi!"

Jake ducked the playful swipe I'd aimed at him, then went back to studying photos of Edward. There were some of him exercising in shorts and a black T-shirt that hugged his chest: all broad, tight shoulders and straining biceps.

I was going to have to save some of these pictures later on.

"No … well, despite his face, _pretty_ is really the wrong word for him," he said seriously, as if he'd considered the matter carefully. But then he was grinning again. "He's _all man_, I bet." He raised his eyebrows and made it sound really dirty.

I giggled and then found myself blushing. "I couldn't possibly comment." Before he could try to dig for any more information in that direction, I added, "Have I got competition with you for Edward now, then?"

"No, but I'm gonna have to insist that you find out if he has any hot, single volleyball player friends," Jake said, winking.

I laughed, picturing Jake with Jasper for a moment. I didn't think Jasper was gay, but Jake would probably get on well with him and Emmett. I wondered if I'd ever get to find out.

"Are you going to see him again, then?" Jake asked, getting to the all-important question.

"I don't know. He's in Poland, remember?"

"So?"

"So it's thousands of miles away. I checked."

"I know that, but it shouldn't stop you if you really like the guy," he said. His optimism was refreshing. "And if he likes you ..."

"I guess he does ..." I said, not feeling or sounding very certain. He did seem to, but was that enough?

"Did he give you his email address or anything?"

"Yes … email address and home phone number," I said with a small smile, producing the photos from my bag and showing him Edward's writing on the back.

Jake grabbed the photos out of my hand and flipped them over, grinning at what he saw — the obvious evidence of our arousal — and holding it high up so that I couldn't reach to take it back. I was kind of embarrassed, but I supposed he may as well find out all the details now if he was going to help me figure out what to do next.

"Wow. There is so much chemistry between you two. I'm guessing you've slept together already?"

I nodded, lost for words, only praying that he didn't think the picture had been taken straight afterwards, as it probably appeared that way.

"And you wonder if he likes you? I hate to break it to you, Bella, but Edward seems pretty smitten to me. He gave you his home number … and left you with _these —"_ he indicated the photos " — to make sure you'd contact him. You'd be crazy not to."

"You really think so?" I asked, but of course he had a point. My stomach flipped at the idea that Edward cared so much about me.

"Yes, I do. You should do it. Just an email at first, I suppose. Nothing too full-on."

I don't know how I'd expected Jake to react. I guessed maybe I'd expected him to feel protective of me and advise me against starting a long-distance relationship, or against getting too attached because it wasn't realistic. That was what my subconscious had been saying. But now, with his encouragement, a little bundle of possibility was unfurling inside my belly.

I didn't want to get too carried away, though, so I just said I'd think about it.

Over the rest of our shopping trip, Jake tried to dig for more gossip about my relationship with Edward, but I didn't give a lot away. I still needed to decide how I felt about it myself. Maybe I'd talk to him more about it once we got back home again.

Jake had to leave when it got to 3 p.m. He worked as a freelance music journalist, and it turned out that the main reason he was in London at the moment was to interview a band before a gig they were playing tonight. I hadn't heard of them, but judging by his excitement, they were the next-big-thing, and I just wasn't "with it" enough to know.

Jake offered me a lift back to Oxford, meaning I wouldn't have to catch the train. We arranged to meet at my hotel the next morning.

I stayed in central London after he'd left and looked at a few more shops until my feet were killing me, and then I found a café where I could rest until I got my energy back. I sat on a cosy couch, reading a gossip magazine and drinking coffee, enjoying the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the young crowd around me.

~ DfF ~

I was tired again tonight, but unlike last night, I'd gotten undressed and had a nice hot shower before I was ready for bed.

I reached into my rucksack to find my pyjamas. They weren't something I always wore at home, and it wasn't even that cold in the hotel room, but I just liked the comforting feeling of wearing something familiar when I was away from home.

I rummaged a bit, cursing myself for not unpacking yet. At last, my hand touched on cotton near the bottom of the bag, and I pulled the item out. But, instead of my sleepwear, it was a light grey T-shirt that I didn't remember packing. I didn't recognise it at all, in fact. I unfolded it: it was clearly a man's size as it must be several sizes too big for me. It looked a little like the training clothes Edward had been wearing at the airport, I realised. Sure enough, when I turned it over, I saw the printed "_Polska_" and the little Polish flag on the left breast of the T-shirt.

I traced my fingers over the slightly raised red and white stitching of the flag, wondering how the T-shirt had gotten into my rucksack. Before I could properly consider the meaning of what I was doing, I had brought the soft material up to my face to breathe in Edward's unmistakable smell. It made me feel as if we were connected again somehow, and all that distance became nothing. I could picture him holding me close, stroking my hair just as he had done at the airport — and again in the dream last night.

Finally, I put the T-shirt down. _I must have picked it up by mistake with my own things when I was in his room one day_, I rationalised. And yet, I was convinced I'd never seen this particular item before. Had Edward purposely put it into my bag as another reminder of him when he was gone? Did he know me well enough already to know that I'd immediately be checking for his scent on it? Maybe he thought I'd be sleeping with it next to me or even wearing it. It was a little presumptuous of him, if I thought about it objectively, or arrogant even. But it'd had — presumably — the desired effect on me, reminding me of him and making me see how much I missed him already.

On the bright side, if he'd really put his T-shirt in my bag — unless he was in the habit of scattering his wardrobe all over the world — it seemed to contradict Jess's portrayal of Edward as a well-travelled womaniser. He'd left it to leave his mark on me, to remind me of him. It was _me_ that he wanted.

I smiled a little to myself, but put the T-shirt on the bedside table and then found the pyjamas I'd actually been looking for. I put them on, got into bed, and switched the light off. But I lay there for quite some time and couldn't seem to fall asleep. Something was nagging at me. No one would ever be any the wiser — including _him_ — so I sat up, turned the bedside light on and took my pyjama top off, swapping it for Edward's grey T-shirt instead. It swamped my small frame, but now I had the soft material next to my skin, and I was surrounded by his smell; it was the closest I could get for now to him holding me. And I needed anything I could get. Like this, I finally relaxed and fell into a deep sleep.

~ DfF ~

Perhaps it was unsurprising that I dreamed of Edward again. This time, I was woken by my alarm, and I remembered straight away. It had been the same scene again: the airport embrace. _God, I'd give anything to hold him again for real._

But my memory of what happened next was clearer. We'd walked together towards airport security, holding hands, but hadn't parted once we got there. We went through it together, talked more in the boarding lounge, and then boarded the plane together.

My subconscious was being very cruel.

After what Jake had said and now this, I decided I _would_ write that email.

I opened up a blank message on my smartphone and just stared at the screen for a moment, watching the tiny blinking cursor. I didn't know how to start. I had an idea and opened up a Google search for "how to say hello in Polish." But I was put off by the strange-looking results. The shortest option was spelled C – Z – E – Ś – Ć. I could copy and paste it, but maybe it was safer not to write something that I definitely couldn't pronounce, in case it was wrong. There was also "_hej._" But maybe that'd make me look like a five-year-old. I regretted not paying enough attention when the team had spoken or asking Edward to teach me a few words of his language.

Okay, no Polish then. Maybe that would look overly keen anyway; I suppose I was just trying to test the waters with this email anyway.

I went back to the email and pictured Edward. What would I say if I could talk to him right now? I'd have to gloss over the part about how much I missed him, though.

_Hi, Edward._

_Bella here. I just wanted to check that you got home safely. How was your flight?_

_Also, in case you were looking for it — I found one of your T-shirts in my bag._

_Take care,_

_B._

I added a kiss to the end but then changed my mind again and deleted it.

The message was short, but still friendly enough — it would do. I really hoped he'd reply and was impatient to see what he would say.

* * *

**A/N: I'm thinking of writing some PPOV (Polishward Point of View) next time. What do you think?**

**The chapter and story titles are song titles/lyrics; send me a PM if you're interested to know the songs.**

**Thanks so much for reading! It'd be lovely to hear your thoughts. :)**


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